by A. L. Bruno
The rest of Dasa’s plan was simple. Once she was sure of a day when Kawin wasn’t going to work late, Gishkim would sneak into his office and retrieve the files from his locked desk drawer. Dasa had the combination, of course, but they agreed that the more forcefully he broke the drawer open, the better. The point was to draw attention away from Dasa. More than getting justice for Obet, keeping Dasa safe was all that really mattered to Gishkim.
After he retrieved the files—Folder 38597C, as Dasa had forced him to memorize—Gishkim would place them in the hidden bottom compartment of his satchel. Afterwards he would head into the locker room, using the same back stairwell Kawin had dragged Dasa down to watch Obet’s punishment, and wait for the Power Time crew to shower. Gishkim would go through the motions and leave with them, trailing just far enough behind to not cause suspicion. Once done, he’d head to Duse Mirt where Dasa would already be drinking. Gishkim would take a table or a place at the bar as far from her as he could and wait for her to approach. She would retrieve the folder from his satchel—he was intimately familiar with how dexterous her hands were—and afterwards, they would leave separately.
And after that?
Gishkim wasn’t sure. The closest they’d come to talking about it had been three days into their planning. She’d cuddled into him after another gymnastic round of sex—Dasa, Gishkim decided, had ruined all other women for him. Like always, she lazily traced the Kionel Aetna tattoo on his chest with a black-painted fingernail.
“What do you want?” Dasa asked suddenly.
“Want?” Gishkim chuckled. “I a-already g-got it.”
“No,” she whispered, serious. “What do you want for helping me?”
Gishkim looked down at her, confused. “I just w-want you s-safe.”
Dasa frowned, then smiled, her eyes darting back and forth as she took in his face. She smacked his chest suddenly and pushed herself up on one elbow. “I’m serious,” she said. “I got this place for helping the Authority. What would you like?”
Gishkim settled back into the silk sheets. It wasn’t like he hadn’t asked himself that very question. Sure, he’d love a place like Dasa’s—Vyzia’s drinking had increased to liver-killing levels since the aliens had arrived, and the Babbler’s shift had changed, meaning they were always in the room—but he knew that wasn’t it. What he wanted was far more important.
“Purpose,” Gishkim said.
“You mean moving cargo for the Central Authority isn’t enough for you, Associate?” Dasa mocked, smiling.
Gishkim rolled onto his side and stared into her eyes. “I helped p-people before,” he said. “B-before Nirneta. I g-got to help people l-like the K-Kionel Aet-aet…” He closed his eyes and sighed, the word stuck.
Dasa stroked his face, and he opened his eyes again. She was watching him intently, her expression unreadable.
“Having a purpose means that much to you?” she asked.
Yes! Gishkim wanted to exclaim. What so few got about the Kionel Aetna was that its appeal wasn’t the combat, or the art, or even the stories. No, what resonated with him when he saw his first episode, hiding under a pillow while his parents screamed and hurled dishes at each other, was that the people on the screen did what was right even when it hurt them. They believed in things bigger than themselves and were willing to sacrifice everything to save others. They were heroes not because of their weapons, or their spells, or their subterfuge, but because of their compassion. Saving lives is what drove them, and Gishkim couldn’t think of a higher calling. He wanted to say all of that to Dasa, to make her understand, but instead he just took her hand and smiled.
“It saved my life,” Gishkim finally said.
Dasa’s mouth dropped open, and her eyes suddenly welled up with tears. When she kissed him again it was with an unfamiliar, almost desperate earnestness. She pulled away just as abruptly and buried her face into his chest.
Dasa never asked Gishkim what he wanted again.
Central Authority Shipyards
Prayad, Kalintel
“Tonight.”
Dasa whispered the word to Gishkim as they made their way to the canteen for lunch. She smiled up at him as if talking about the weather and stepped lightly, her outward demeanor cheerful.
A rush of adrenaline flooded through Gishkim and he fought back the sudden urge to pee. Instead, he stared ahead, following his overall-clad coworkers as if nothing were amiss.
“W-when?” he whispered.
“You’ll know,” Dasa answered. She stopped outside the main warehouse, pulling them away from the flow of other workers heading towards the long A-framed canteen. The sun had burned through Prayad’s perpetual cloud cover earlier in the day, giving the city’s denizens a glimpse of the azure sky beyond. She turned to look at him, her pale skin glowing in the unfamiliar light. “When you see the Authority transport show up by his door, that’s when you’ll move.”
Gishkim didn’t get a chance to ask more questions. Dasa playfully punched him in the shoulder and strode towards the canteen.
“Come on,” she called back to him, “or we won’t get a seat!”
Gishkim’s heart pounded harder than it had in years, and he followed the small woman who had changed his life without question.
The moment the call for Power Time volunteers blared over the loudspeakers was the moment that Gishkim got second thoughts. He went through the motions as practiced, shuffling in line with the normal shift, answering the security questions, and taking one tiny step after another until he found himself in the cavernous locker room. He stripped, dumped his work clothes into the waiting hamper, then showered, savoring the water pressure on his skin. He waited until the last worker left the shower bay before he headed back to his locker. Even then, he only changed clothes once the final person ambled towards the exit. After that he grabbed his satchel and, as casually as he could, walked into the darker sections of the locker room towards the rear stairwell entrance.
A part of Gishkim screamed the entire time. What was he doing? The Kalinteli government had saved him from starvation. How could he break their rules—betray their trust—like this? If this went wrong—if Dasa was wrong—the best he could hope for was a work camp not far from Vyzia’s home. How in the six heroes of the Kionel Aetna had he ended up in this place? Then Gishkim passed the spot where Obet had been beaten to death and his doubts evaporated. Some things, he realized, had to be made right.
The door to the rear stairwell was unassuming. Situated in the concrete block wall nearest the front of the warehouse, it was remarkable only for the shoe-sized number pad on the wall by its doorknob. No lights shone in the gap between the rearmost lockers and the wall—the Authority was far too concerned about wasting power for that. Gishkim stuck to the shadows until he reached the door. He glanced behind one more time, his paranoia building by the second, and finally turned to the task at hand.
Gishkim lifted the numeric pad’s stainless-steel cover, noted the lock light gleaming red, and entered the numbers Dasa had forced him to recite: 3241.
Nothing happened.
Gishkim was rattled. He knew the numbers by heart. Dasa had made sure of that. He entered the number again, pressing each of the heavy buttons more firmly.
The lock light remained red.
“Sada,” Gishkim whispered. Sweat erupted from his forehead, and the locker room suddenly felt several degrees warmer.
Gishkim reached for the number pad again.
A hiss from a radio echoed into the darkness and Gishkim turned, panicked. No one was there. He saw only rows of lockers, their rectangular metal bulk standing like silent guardians over the stained concrete floor.
The hiss pierced the darkness again, and suddenly a radio-attenuated voice filled the air.
“…more trouble in Tenasta today,” a male radio voice said, his delivery deliberately bland, “as the Terran Jason Roberts touched off a firestorm of controversy over his supposed insult to Adishta Adelisa Urmah.”
Gishkim
gently closed the number pad cover while scanning the darkened locker room, careful not to focus on any one object.
“We have more from Tenastan anchor Siva Dayati. Siva?”
The sound of the radio was moving closer. Gishkim could just barely make out the beat of bootheels on concrete.
Gishkim glanced one way, then the next. No other doors or windows. There was only an inset next to a pair of water fountains, in front of which sat a rusting metal bench.
The steps grew closer, their pace increasing.
Gishkim moved as quietly as he could into the alcove. He crouched and pressing himself back against the wall, careful to position himself into the corner with the deepest shadows.
“The Terran called Roberts is having a hard time with the Kionelaite,” Siva Dayati said, her voice echoing across the locker room. Gishkim barely heard the words, instead focusing on the sound of the approaching steps.
“He’s been dragged around like a prop by Adishta Adelisa Urmah, forced into photo ops with no preparation, and dropped into interviews—like the one he famously walked out on only yesterday.”
Gishkim spotted the security guard just as he moved beyond the lockers. He knew the man. Preska. A grandfather. Preska had served in the closing days of the Great Tenastan War, and often spoke of seeing the nuclear fire destroying his home city of Zmela. Spared the worst of the fallout, he spent his golden years checking IDs in a low-pressure job until the day when his state pension kicked in.
“…go ahead and call me “Scar Guy”,” the alien named Roberts blurted. Gishkim pressed himself to the concrete blocks of the wall behind him, holding his breath. “Coming from you, I take that as a compliment.”
Preska chuckled, then stopped in front of the rear stairwell keypad. Gishkim heard the metal cover slam open, and the squeaks of the buttons as Preska touched them.
Gishkim crouched lower, moving as quietly as he could, and peered around the wall to spy on Preska at the pad.
Preska’s security cap was tipped back on his skull, his mouth pursed as he glowered at the keypad. A small radio dangled from his belt, blaring news while he puzzled over the door in front of him. He pulled a piece of paper from his top pocket, retrieved his glasses from the cord hanging around his neck, and read the paper carefully.
Gishkim didn’t want to hurt Preska. He’d always been nice to him, proudly showing Gishkim pictures of his grandchildren. Even the idea of choking the older man into unconsciousness made Gishkim cringe inwardly. But if the choice was between Preska and Dasa…
Gishkim’s jaw tightened, and he counted the steps towards the door. He’d approach low and catch Preska unawares. If Gishkim was careful, the older man wouldn’t even be that badly hurt.
Preska tapped in the numbers into the pad and waited.
Nothing happened.
“Sada!” Preska barked.
Gishkim tensed. So, it wasn’t just him. The combination had to have been changed. If that had happened without Dasa’s knowledge, did that mean Kawin was on to her? On to them?
Preska looked over his shoulders, glancing one way, then the next. Gishkim froze, holding his breath lest the older man spot the movement. Preska’s eyes slid past the spot where Gishkim crouched, then into the locker room beyond before he turned back to the door. With one more quick glance to the right and left he retrieved his key ring, flipped through the mass of silver and copper slabs of metal, and finally slid one into the door’s waiting lock. He twisted once, the latch offering up a satisfying click, and with that he opened the door and stepped inside. Gishkim lunged out of his hiding spot and dashed towards the door, one hand outstretched to catch it before it closed. The door slammed shut behind Preska.
Gishkim slid to a stop crouched by the door and bit his lip against the abundance of curses flooding his mind. He should have taken Preska down, he realized. Sentiment had no place on a battlefield, and he realized with a start that he was, in fact, in battle. He wondered if he could sneak up the front way, moving along the corridor walls to make it to the main office entry. It was risky, but without it the plan would fall apart.
That’s when Gishkim noticed that the light on the still-open number panel was bright green. “No…” Gishkim whispered to himself. He pressed his ear against the door, listening for sounds of Preska in the staircase.
Her heard nothing.
Gishkim reached out, twisted the knob slowly, and the door opened. Preska hadn’t just unlocked the door, he’d disengaged the automatic system. The next time he saw Preska, Gishkim decided, he would give him a toy for his grandson.
Gishkim entered the stairwell as quietly as he could, then eased the door back into its frame, slowly releasing the handle it until he felt it latch. Finally, he slipped under the lowest flight of stairs and crouched, his heart pounding.
Dasa’s next instructions, offered over lunch between bites of sausage, were clear. Gishkim moved to the wall beneath the staircase and searched for a window frame and painted-over wooden cover. Just as Dasa promised, it was there—the frame’s latch painted shut by the same milky gray paint used throughout the warehouse. He pressed his thumb gently on the latch, increasing pressure slowly until the paint cracked, and it rotated. With that he grabbed the window frame on either side of the latch, and, as carefully as he could manage, he pushed down.
For a moment nothing happened. Then, with a sharp crack that made Gishkim’s heart jump, the paint gave way and the window moved, freeing the thin piece of plywood from the rain-stained basement-style window. Gishkim eased the board to one side, leaning it underneath the lowest steps, and peered through the glass.
Gishkim found himself looking between the outer steps leading up to Kawin’s exterior office door. The concrete of the freight dock stretched towards the outer gate, while the Power Time workers dashed to-and-fro, moving cargo as quickly as they could. Again, exactly as Dasa had promised.
Gishkim sighed. All he had to do now was wait.
It took two hours before the black stretch carriage rolled up to Kawin’s outer steps. The pace of work outside had slowed, then stopped, and the blast of the Power Shift work whistle moved Gishkim to near panic. He’d just decided to abandon the attempt, but the arrival of the expensive government vehicle made him sigh with relief. Gishkim grabbed the window cover, eased it back into place to hide his position, but kept a thin gap near the top to keep an eye on what was happening outside.
The exterior metal staircase suddenly rattled and shook, creaking and bending with heavy footsteps. Gishkim slid the wood cover higher over the window, his vision almost entirely obscured. Suddenly the footsteps stopped. There was the sound of a heavy vehicle door slamming shut, and the carriage eased away, its tires squeaking as they rolled into motion.
Now.
Gishkim dashed out from under the stairwell and took the steps up two at a time. He reached the door leading into the hallway between Dasa’s desk and Kawin’s office and, as gently as he could, he pushed it open a crack.
The lights were off in the hallway, the normal workday already finished, dusty light from the window at the far end of the corridor the only illumination. Gishkim opened the door, slipped into the cheaply carpeted hallway within, and closed it behind him, careful not to let the door latch.
Gishkim’s heart pounded, and sweat covered his forehead, but he pressed on, determined. He moved as quietly as he could towards Kawin’s office, carefully opening his satchel to prepare the files for transport. He’d removed the false bottom hours earlier; all he had to do now was get the folder, put the false bottom on top, and head out.
Gishkim smiled. He hated to admit it, but he was having fun.
Gishkim reached the office door, slipped inside, and pulled it closed behind him.
“Who the hell are you?”
Gishkim spun around, alarmed.
Administrator Kawin stared up at Gishkim from behind his desk, his eyes bloodshot from work, drink, or both. Papers covered his dark wood desk, an emptied folder cast to one side.
Glossy black-and-white pictures of submerged chests, figureheads, and tablets were strewn about, as were pages of typewritten reports.
“I asked you a question!” Kawin demanded. He pushed back from his desk, in the manner of a man accustomed to absolute authority.
Tablets? Gishkim ignored Kawin and read the folder number: 38597C.
Gishkim met Kawin’s eyes. The administrator glanced down at the emptied folder, then back at Gishkim’s hulking form. The blood rushed from his face, and he reached under his desk.
Gishkim reacted without thought. He grabbed Kawin by the throat, yanking him away from the desk and the security button for which he was almost certainly reaching. Kawin’s eye’s widened, shocked by Gishkim’s strength, and he clawed frantically at Gishkim’s eyes.
Gishkim spun the administrator around in his arms like a rag doll, slamming the smaller man’s back into to his chest. The administrator flailed frantically, Gishkim’s grip squeezing his airway closed. Then, with a quick twist, Gishkim snapped Kawin’s neck as if it were nothing but a dried twig.
Kawin twitched in Gishkim’s arms. He’d void his bowels soon. If Gishkim was going to make this look like something other than murder he had to act quickly.
Gishkim lifted Kawin’s still-twitching body over his shoulder, opened the office door, and carried him to the window. He glanced out, making sure there was no one looking, and slid the window upwards. After one last check, Gishkim positioned Kawin’s body head down out of the window and dropped him.