Fading Control

by TW Iain

  Flames surged between the buildings, spreading across the undergrowth, acrid smoke adding to the confusion. A burst of fire, and the heat was heavy with oil. A part of Arivan’s attack or Authority’s defences? There was no way to tell.

  Vanya slowed her breathing, steadied her heart. She analysed. Rushing in would be foolish. She could retreat, but for all their faults these people were still fighting Authority. If she could help, she would.

  More flickering fire from rooftops, and in the after-image Vanya saw how the snipers lay down, heads just visible over the edges.

  She turned, focused on the tree that grew between her position and the next building, judged the strength of its upper branches. And then she pushed to her feet and ran.

  For a moment she flew through the air, nothing beneath her feet. Then wet leaves slapped her face, and branches whipped at her legs. She reached out, grabbing wood.

  A man ran beneath her, yelling. A warrior barrelled in from the man’s left, throwing him to the ground. The warrior didn’t pause, stomped on the man’s head. Brought his boot down a second time, a third. Then raced back to the chaos.

  Nothing Vanya could do for the victim. But she might be able to stop others falling to the closest sniper.

  She scrambled through the branches, dropped onto the roof, legs bent to absorb the shock and deaden the sound. Then across the rooftop, as lightly as she could.

  No way to run silently, and the sniper’s head spun. But too late. Vanya bent, scooped up the figure’s legs and pushed. She saw his face, wide with shock, as he tipped over the edge of the roof. The rifle slipped from his fingers, tumbled next to him. His bones crunched as he landed on concrete.

  He didn’t move.

  Vanya ducked down, scanned nearby rooftops, calculated where other snipers lay. And then she glanced into the chaos.

  Arivan, in the midst of the fighting, spun wildly, metal edges slicing air and anything that came close. His roar lifted above the crowd. And Cobey was still with him, firing his gun. One of his guards followed, bringing down any approaching danger. No‌—‌anyone getting close. Didn’t seem to matter if they were warrior or not, if they were Authority or from the Haze.

  And behind Corby another figure fought through the chaos. This one held blades, and his limbs moved of their own accord, slicing through threats with practised ease. But she’d seen moves like that before. She’d had the opportunity to study them in training.

  Vanya sucked in air.

  What the hell was Rodin up to?

  Rodin pushed through the melee, body leading mind. But his mind caught up fast.

  This was a trap‌—‌no doubt about that. Authority knew exactly what was being planned. That meant they had inside information. They had a spy.

  Rodin’s arms throbbed as his blades bit into flesh, forcing passage toward Arivan and Corby. He couldn’t stop the slaughter, but he might be able to pull the Brother out, salvage something from this mess.

  Corby fought on, still desperate to persuade Arivan to stop. A fool’s mission, but the man wasn’t thinking straight. Too long controlling others, not enough time spent outside his house. Still hot-headed, but he’d grown soft. He staggered, didn’t fall only because his guard grabbed him.

  The guard‌—‌the male one‌—‌spun, red mist spraying from his head, illuminated by the glow from the fires. He didn’t cry out as he fell.

  Rodin leapt over him, followed Corby.

  Someone fell from a roof. In the flare-light Rodin caught a face looking after the faller, and he knew it was Vanya, knew she had involved herself too.

  They were both fools, then.

  Rodin jumped out of the way of a club, swung his foot round to bring the attacker down. The way he fell, Rodin suspected a dislocated knee. If he stayed down, if he shuffled away, he might survive.

  Corby yelled Arivan’s name.

  Rodin reached out, grabbed the man’s shoulder, careful of how he placed his blade.

  Corby spun.

  “You’re going to die!” Rodin said, jumping back as Corby’s gun came round, as a shot flew past Rodin.

  Corby jerked‌—‌surprise, maybe. Then he shook his head. “Can still stop this.”

  “No! It’s gone too far.”

  His second guard appeared at Corby’s side, and her gun barked. Someone screamed as they fell. Just another death amongst many.

  She was composed, her moves fluid and precise‌—‌far more professional than her male counterpart, now dead. And she’d been the one in the office, when Rodin talked about the effects this attack would have.

  She caught his eye, then looked over his shoulder. Her mouth twitched.

  Rodin spun, ducked under a blade. The figure wore some kind of body armour, face hidden by a mask. Rodin kicked out, boot making contact.

  It didn’t bring the warrior down.

  Vanya ploughed through the mob, insensitive to who she pushed aside, who she trod on.

  The movements in the crowd behind Rodin told her all she needed to know. The figure carved a straight path, oblivious to the suffering all around, fixed on the target. Arivan’s people fell as the incoming force slashed with expert precision. Trained, but also enhanced.

  It had to be a warrior.

  Vanya held a blade in her right hand, the gun in her left. Not ideal for aiming, but this would be close-range anyway.

  A shout to her right‌—‌one amongst many, but louder, more urgent. The shout of exertion rather than pain.

  She ducked, let the attacker lunge over her head, thrust up with her right hand. Felt the blade slide into flesh, warmth on her hand. Her attacker’s momentum carried them away, and she twisted her blade free as they fell, ran on before they hit the ground.

  Ahead, the warrior behind Rodin lunged.

  Too far to risk a shot.

  Vanya focused‌—‌her eyes, her energy, her everything. She pushed her legs harder, gripped her blade. Took in the scene, every detail.

  A snapshot. Corby, standing with a look of stupefaction on his face, arms outstretched and useless. His guard crouching, back to her boss, firing her gun. Rodin on the ground, twisting away as a boot came down.

  It missed him‌—‌just. Vanya didn’t know how he’d read the warrior’s actions so fast, or if it was chance. But he was still alive.

  The warrior shifted his body, raised one arm. Only a fraction, but enough for Vanya to read his intentions.

  She flicked her wrist. Her blade spun through the air. In her mind she saw the trajectory.

  The blade thundered into the warrior’s neck. He staggered‌—‌and Rodin rolled further away, hands out to push himself to his feet. But the warrior wasn’t yet down. The blade had hit too low, had entered at the wrong angle. Hadn’t severed arteries or major nerves, hadn’t caught the spine.

  Vanya had followed the blade, though. The warrior loomed large as she approached, turned to face his new attacker.

  The finger on her left hand squeezed, a tiny movement when so many muscles pumped hard, when so much adrenaline surged through her body. But that movement was enough.

  The warrior’s stomach exploded. He fell back, and Vanya followed him, fist connecting with face, splintering bone. Her left hand came up, and this time the shot removed one side of his head.

  But there had been another crack of gunfire, close by. The powder-burn aroma flared bright.

  Another snapshot. Rodin, on his feet, crouching low, blades circling. Corby on the ground, face down. Blood swelled from the hole at the base of his neck.

  The guard nowhere to be seen.

  And chaos all around.

  Vanya reached out, grabbed Rodin’s arm.

  He glanced down at Corby’s body, then nodded.

  They retreated, fighting free of the chaos.

  Authority had what they wanted.

  - 26 -

  The FleurBlanc was one of the more striking buildings in First Dome, Shae always thought, and one of the few that appealed to her. It was oval at its base,
but the walls rose like petals, intertwined and overlapping, none of them straight. From above‌—‌and she’d seen the images, of course, especially the one in Edifice Beautiful a couple of years ago‌—‌it resembled a huge flower, the asymmetry of the design adding to the overall effect.

  But seen from other angles, it became less flower-like and‌…‌more obscure. The place looked almost alive, as if it were some kind of internal organ finally given its freedom. And maybe that was what appealed to Shae‌—‌the idea that things could be freed, that things didn’t need to stay trapped.

  The performance, by the Lilithong troupe‌—‌not the originals, of course, but those who had taken their places over the years‌—‌promised much, although Shae wasn’t here for the dancing itself. Yes, she could appreciate the choreography, and she could read the symbolism in the movements and so forth‌—‌but it was hardly the best art form with which to reach the masses. The recordings didn’t capture the full essence of the piece, and there were only so many times something like this could be staged. No, static art, or art that could be easily reproduced in exact copies‌—‌that was how to reach more of the residents.

  But the event itself was important, with so many influential people in attendance. And that meant Shae was here to work. Sitting in the vast auditorium and watching those lithe men and women cavorting on the stage and the overhead trapeze wires would be a brief interlude, somewhere she could gather her thoughts from the pre-show congregation and plan her strategy for the after-show party.

  She was careful with her drink‌—‌always had one in her hand, always accepted an offer of another from any interesting party, but imbibed only a little. She’d eaten before attending‌—‌something she used to ignore when she was younger, to her great detriment‌—‌and had ensured her attire was attractive without being overly striking, fashionable while still being comfortable.

  And, of course, she had the recording device ready.

  It was something a colleague‌—‌that was how she liked to think of him, even though that night had skewed his view of their relationship‌—‌had acquired for her, something that either came from the research teams within Authority, or from the brilliant minds that did exist in the districts. Her colleague wouldn’t pass on any details, no matter how she tried to please him, but she was confident he wouldn’t tell others about their little secret.

  The device appeared as a modest pendant, almost elegant in its simplicity, and something that could match any costume she chose to wear, formal or informal. There was a button in the small depression at the rear of the item, or it could be turned on via a remote toggle that she could easily hide about her person. Once triggered, it would record the sounds around the wearer, storing hours of data that she could extract through a specially-coded routine buried deep in her screen.

  It had proved invaluable over the years, aiding her memory of snatched conversations, providing her with the ability to play back words and decipher their hidden meanings. She had her screen, of course, and it was expected that a journalist of her calibre would have some means of recording conversations. But while many were keen to have their words recorded for posterity, there were occasions when she sought more natural utterances.

  She had the device triggered, ready to capture anything of interest she overheard as she wound her way through the throng of the Dome’s finest. Soft music filled the air, a constant bed of noise that allowed voices to sit like cushions on its surface. And one voice now called out her name.

  Shae turned and smiled in recognition.

  “Councillor Erinya, so good to see you. Last time was‌…‌I can hardly recall.”

  “Three years ago, at that tedious opening of the Grande Palate.” The woman’s voice was deep and soft, almost sultry. Erinya rolled her eyes, the motion exaggerated, and Shae knew the Councillor had been drinking heavily. Not that this affected her critical thinking, of course. Many suspected she took something to ward off alcohol’s effects, but Shae understood that the Councillor was simply‌…‌practised in her behaviours.

  “Is that place still in business?” Shae said. “I can’t recall seeing any recent reviews, although I’ve been away for a while.”

  “Away again? My dear, you’re always running off, aren’t you? It must put your head in such a tizzy, and I’m amazed you have the stability to even know where you are.” Her arms spun, and some of her drink sloshed in the flute‌—‌but didn’t leave the glass, Shae noted. All carefully crafted, as was her attire. The dress‌—‌the lower folds could conceal leggings, but Shae knew Erinya’s preference for skirts‌—‌shimmered, and the gossamer material over the arms and upper body hinted at the skin beneath. It was the kind of dress that was both acceptably formal and enticingly erotic, and the Councillor could oscillate between these modes with the flick of her hair or the twirl of her limbs.

  “But the restaurant is no more,” Erinya continued. “I believe the owner‌—‌what was his name? Oh, it’s not important‌—‌relocated to the east of the Dome, and set up a far more modest establishment close to the river, just before it sinks underground. An appropriate place, when so much of his food is voided into water, yes?”

  Shae had to smile at the wicked insult. “He’d be better off throwing it out himself,” she said. “But I hear you’ve had some success recently. Councillor Torrin has finally backed down, yes?”

  “Oh, he had to fall eventually. He had good arguments on his side, but he relied on them too much. I, on the other hand, understood what the people wanted. Covered walkways across the park! Practical, possibly, but what nonsense! Who goes to an open space like that only to be enclosed? Why not just‌…‌just flatten the Dome and have the glass within reaching distance?”

  That might be a comment worth recalling, one that could be interpreted in many ways. Shae wouldn’t use it to spite the Councillor, of course, but others might, and there were ways Shae could pass the words on without their source‌—‌herself‌—‌being implicated in any way. Possibly Dellon, over in Kern, could use the growing sense of dislike about the glass amongst high-ranking Councillors within First to encourage others to view Authority with less blind acceptance. The thought was worth more contemplation, considering the increasingly liberal views taking hold in Kern Dome.

  Erinya talked on, about everything and nothing, her mastery of small-talk evident, along with the way she used it to gently direct the conversation. When prompted, Shae talked of her work in Ross‌—‌the Councillor was always keen to learn news from other places‌—‌although she was naturally careful in what she said.

  “There are rumours, though,” Shae said when she felt the conversation had reached an appropriate point. “While we both know not to trust rumours, there are troubling aspects to what is being spoken in some circles. There are those who say‌…‌oh, I’m not sure how best to phrase this.”

  Erinya raised her eyebrows. “Shae, lost for words?”

  Shae shook her head, accepted the Councillor’s hand on her arm. “I’m seeking the most apposite ones. To put it bluntly‌—‌because I know you’re strong enough to take it, my dear‌—‌they speak of growing trouble in First’s districts, of a possible threat to the Dome itself.”

  She watched the Councillor’s reaction‌—‌and the woman’s true reaction, deeper within. The laugh that erupted was filled with mirth, but there had been a slight delay, a moment when Erinya forced her response.

  “Oh, my dear, that is priceless! The strongest Dome, both in its people and the glass itself, in danger from those ruffians who can’t even organise a decent society?”

  The standard arguments, the ones a Councillor was expected to make.

  “So there have been no unusual developments?” Shae asked. “It’s rare for rumour to have no basis in reality.”

  The laughter faded, although Erinya’s natural smile still showed her mirth‌—‌and Shae knew not to trust that too much.

  “I’ll admit there has been some interesting activity�
��—‌not something I wish to discuss in any detail at an event such as this, you understand‌—‌but it’s nothing to concern ourselves over. Just some simple power-plays between their little gangs.”

  So the information Shae had received was correct‌—‌allegiances were shifting in the districts, those ‘little gangs’ jockeying for position.

  “The usual in-fighting, then,” she said. “Petty squabbles‌—‌much like Orrian’s move to take over the lead dance role?”

  Shae gave a slight nod of her head, indicating one of the more senior Lilithong members who was surrounded by a clutch of fans‌—‌not that they’d describe themselves like that, being upstanding women with important positions in society. But Erinya understood, and her eyes sparkled when she looked over.

  “And if he thinks playing up to that bunch will improve his standing, it’s true what they say about his brains being located in his body rather than in his head.”

  Shae gave the grin Erinya was clearly seeking. “A certain part of his body, from what I understand.”

  “Shame there’s not enough to go round all those women‌—‌brains or otherwise. Although one or two I know don’t take much to keep up their interest, if you understand me.”

  Some wouldn’t, but Shae laughed with the Councillor.

  “But I must mingle‌—‌you know how these things are. And poor old Milly is around somewhere, probably boring some young thing with his tedious jokes. I can’t let him bring down the side too much, can I?”

  “No change in him, then?” And Shae pictured the man in her mind‌—‌Millarov, Erinya’s partner of over a decade, perfectly sculpted body, the kind of pet that added greatly to a Councillor’s standing.

  “Oh, you know how he is. Has his uses, but takes so much work sometimes. He’s growing restless again. The last few events have been‌…‌not up to expectations.

  “I understand. And don’t let me hold you back from rescuing whoever he has in his sights.”