by TW Iain
“And so, you removed yourself in those times.” Cat brought his arms out, leaned his head to one side. “Why do you think I only partook on that one occasion, when we both know you were encouraged to engage repeatedly?”
“So you pitied me? You stopped because you felt sorry for me?” The scorn was evident in her tone. “You expect that to make me want to forgive you?”
He shook his head. “I don’t deserve your forgiveness. The things I’ve done weigh heavy on my heart, but it is a burden I know I must bear alone. But I never pitied you, not like that. I saw your strength, your dedication to what was right. And I also saw the cost. I saw how it split your soul, driving a wedge between you and your family. I saw how you forced yourself to retreat, how you pushed yourself to act abhorrently, to torture yourself in the hope that others might avoid torture imposed by our enemies.
“And I admit, I was too young and too inexperienced to face that. So I made my excuses, risked possible censure or investigation because I was weak. It was selfishness, pure and simple.”
“So big of you to admit that you don’t care for others,” she said, but the insult had no bite, and the sneer had fallen from her lips. “And you’ve suddenly decided to unburden yourself?”
“Not suddenly. This…this is the last chance I’ll get to tell you these things. Events are building, Leena. I know you’re no longer close to what is happening, but Authority is making their move. And…and that means they’re more observant, more alert for the signs of subterfuge. I fear they’re closing in.”
She barely contained her gasp. “They’re after you, and you lead them here? You really don’t think of anyone else, do you?” Some of her drink splashed, and she flinched as the hot liquid hit her hands.
It wasn’t much, though. Her mug was almost empty. Cat noticed that and tried not to smile.
He held her eyes, and there must have been something in his gaze, maybe a glimmer of sincerity, that forced her to calm down.
“We always knew discovery was a possibility, didn’t we?” he said. “But please hear me out. I might…struggle to consider the emotions of others, but I have no desire to harm you.”
“That doesn’t change what happened.”
“I did what I had to do! If you dial down your emotional response, surely you can see that. Every day I wish I could go back in time and find another alternative, one in which your partner and daughter were not dragged into our problems.”
“And now I have no daughter.”
He shook his head. “You’re wrong there. That’s what I need to tell you, before…before things come to a head. Before I go.”
Her brow furrowed, and the turmoil within was evident, confusion fighting with hope.
“She’s still alive?”
“Very much so.”
“But…but they took her again. I saw the reports. Taken in First Dome, placed in Correction a second time. I know how that ends up. Please, don’t offer me false hope.”
“It’s not false. She escaped.”
Leena snorted. “You said she was…what were your words? A fragile shell, her inner being crushed to a seed.”
“But seeds grow. And she had help.”
Leena tilted her head. “You helped her?”
“In part. But there was another one involved, one who had escaped before. You remember her friend from that time?”
“Brodie?” She said his name in a whisper. “He helped my Paskia escape?”
Cat nodded again. “He…grew. When Authority took your daughter to the Last Resort, he rescued her.”
Leena’s arms trembled, and Cat reached forward, taking the mug from her hands, placing it on the table. Her breath grew ragged, and her face pale.
“She’s alive?”
“She is. And you should be proud of her. Your daughter’s a fighter. She’s tough, and she’s smart. She’s saved many lives, and she’s become a woman to be reckoned with. And she’s fighting Authority. Leena, your daughter continues the work you started, with even more zeal and determination.”
He reached over and took her hands in his. She let him do this, her lips open, whispers of breath emerging with words that wouldn’t form.
“You brought Paskia up to think for herself, and you dreamed of a time when she’d be free. You encouraged her to rebel, in the best possible way, even though doing that meant going against Graniff, meant betraying him. You did it anyway, because your daughter’s future was of more importance than your own present. And now, now her future is coming to fruition. Authority might be drawing their pieces for their grand play, but with people like your dear Paskia we’re ready.”
Rivers of moisture ran down her face, running along the lines to touch her pale lips.
“My daughter’s alive,” she said, and the love within those words tore into Cat, sharper than any blade, heavier than any bludgeon.
He nodded, swallowed, didn’t trust himself to speak.
Leena’s lips moved, the same three words a whisper this time, and her face was as it had been all those years ago, when Cat had first seen it.
And her eyes closed.
“You should rest,” he said, standing. She nodded, head lolling, and he knew the drug in her drink was taking effect. “Put your head back, my dear.” He stood behind her chair, eased her shoulders back, and she submitted, her breathing heavy and steady. “Rest, and know that your daughter lives.”
Cat waited, his eyes never leaving Leena. He had no need to see the room she’d lived in for all these years, the sorry shroud in which she’d wrapped herself. That wasn’t the woman. No, she was this fine being before him, one who fought for what was right even though it cost her dearly, took her family from her, tore those she loved from her side.
When her chest ceased its rise and fall, Cat took one last look at her face. He wanted to remember the smile that told him she was finally at peace.
And then he left, knowing that she was somewhere better now.
- 53 -
It was dark, the moon hidden behind heavy clouds. But at least the rain had stopped.
Rodin crouched amongst broken roofing, perched on a stack of crates. From here, he could see along a couple of streets, as well as monitoring Eye feeds from the far side of the buildings opposite.
The area was a hodge-podge, long since abandoned residential buildings rubbing shoulders with small warehouses and workshops. Hence the crates, and the flat roof opposite—ideal for setting up the Eyes.
It had been a quiet shift, the only movement a mangy dog that could barely drag one of its rear legs. Rodin had considered putting it out of its misery, but he couldn’t leave his station. Anyway, he was settled, his body only aching occasionally. He was almost comfortable.
That comfort wasn’t only physical. Knowing that Paskia was so close, her station a short walk away, was a kind of comfort too. If she had any problems, he could help. A quiet night like this, he’d hear her yell.
Not that she’d have any problems. She’d learnt from Cat, and from Cali. She knew what she was doing.
He watched the Eye feeds for a moment, then called up the recorded communications, the ones that had been passed along while Authority’s worm, or whatever it was, hadn’t been active.
There was some news of the warrior army to the north—camped down close to the train tunnel, running exercises. More attacks in Genna’s district. And Vanya had contacted Genna about her suspicious regarding Dephloren and Borinoff.
Sounded like this didn’t come as a total surprise to Genna. Smart woman, that one. Deserved far more respect than she received. Didn’t deserve any of the crap others gave her. Definitely didn’t deserve the constant irritations from Authority.
And he was here because of Genna, wasn’t he? Her envoy. He’d felt the difference, back in that meeting. Rodin stood before the mercenaries, and he knew he wasn’t like them, wasn’t here because of a contract, or on the promise of payment. He was here because…because G
enna had asked it of him. Because Paskia might need his help.
Because it was the right thing to do.
Rodin looked down onto the street, watching the shadows. Nothing. He powered down his screen and took a breath of the cold, refreshing night air.
And heard something.
It could have been anything, wasn’t followed directly by another noise. A thump, on the edge of his hearing. But it was still something.
Shadows moved, further up the street. The thumps multiplied, became rhythmic. Boots. More than one person. Five or six at least.
There were voices too, talking. The wrong timbre for whispers. Only distance kept the words themselves from Rodin’s ears.
The shadows shifted, became figures. The voices grew louder. Rodin strained his eyes to see more.
There were eight of them. One took point, didn’t talk, walked a few paces in front of the others, scanned the area. Another took a similar role at the rear, walking backwards most of the time, slightly apart from the rest.
That was their only play toward any kind of stealth or concern. The six that formed the main group ambled along, their voices now distinct, words clearer. They bantered and joked, one of them being ribbed about getting drunk, curses and insults freely thrown.
Five male, three female. All wore blades, heavy boots, light jackets. All had shaved heads. And all had the trained, altered body tone of warriors.
He tapped his screen, checked connectivity. Aleph’s routine told him it wasn’t safe. Rodin ground his teeth.
Warriors had enhanced senses. They’d hear him if he moved. All he could do was wait and observe.
They passed Rodin’s building, the conversation now turning to some fight, a rough voice speaking far too animatedly about injuries he’d inflicted. One of the others—higher voice, male, slight accent—clearly didn’t believe all the stories. There was some gentle shoving, a laugh. Then the point man stopped, hand held high.
The group bent their knees in readiness, heads turning as they scanned the area, hands hovering over weapons.
Rodin held his breath.
The point man—wiry, dark patch on one side of his neck, could’ve been a tattoo—peered at the building opposite Rodin’s. His nose twitched, like he was sniffing the air.
His voice was a soft rush, far too indistinct for Rodin to hear. But the other warriors did, their attention shifting, following their colleague’s gaze. They mumbled, nodded, and one of them stepped forward. Short, bulky arms, stocky legs. She moved like an animal, slinking rather than walking, to the edge of the street. She ran her hand over the building and peered into the little alley.
Then she turned back to the group and nodded. They, as one, returned the gesture.
She pounced into the alley, swallowed by the shadows.
Rodin’s heart hammered. He glanced across to the building, then to the Eye feeds. Saw the solitary warrior dart along the alley, disappear into the street beyond.
In the main group, the warrior on point straightened up, turned to the others. They communicated with a few nods, a few hand gestures, and then they walked on.
There was no talking now, and they slid to the side of the street, where the shadows were deeper. Metal glinted—unsheathed blades. They didn’t talk, and the tread of their boots no longer reached Rodin’s ears as they faded into the darkness.
He let out the stale air from his lungs, then he focused, assessed his situation. In his mind he pictured a map of the area, calculated trajectories.
The group of warriors were heading toward the Brothers’ base—their base. Only eight of them—no, seven, now that one had peeled off—but that was still enough to cause carnage.
And then there was the stocky woman who had disappeared down the alley. The one sent to investigate something.
Rodin looked across the street, into the dark alley. There were more streets and alleys beyond, a maze of routes. And in that maze lay Paskia’s observation post.
Rodin’s throat tightened, and he swallowed. He shuffled away from the edge of the roof, swiped his screen to put it to sleep, slid it into his jacket. Then he shuffled to the edge of the crates and climbed down.
He’d studied the streets, knew how he could race around the warriors, reach the base before them, alert everyone. If they were prepared, they stood a decent chance of defeating these warriors. Rodin could warn the snipers, get Jornas to pull his security tighter.
Rodin emerged from the building at the rear, skirted round a large puddle with an oily film on its surface. When he reached the side-alley he paused. Heading right would take him north, then he’d curve round to the base. But the lone warrior had headed to the left. Toward Paskia.
She was sensible, though. She’d have secured her position. She’d be on the look-out for warriors.
And if that woman found her, Paskia wouldn’t stand a chance.
Rodin took a step to the right. He stopped. He turned, his breath heavy.
Seven warriors heading toward the Brothers’ place. If they reached it unobserved, they’d cause chaos. But there were mercenaries patrolling the area, others in stations closer to home. Besides, the building wasn’t full—Jornas had set up that other place, hadn’t he? And both were protected.
His head whipped left and right. Shadows both directions. The stink of decay in the air.
And when he made his decision, he knew it was both a terrible mistake and the only thing he could do.
- 54 -
The warrior walked taller now, confident in her own safety. She no longer kept to the edges of the streets.
That made it easier for Rodin to follow, but he couldn’t relax. Each step took the warrior closer to Paskia.
Rodin planned, as far as he could. A blatant attack would be suicide, but warriors weren’t immortal. With a distraction, Rodin might be able to use a blade, might even bring the warrior down.
The thought churned his stomach—that distraction would be Paskia. Rodin couldn’t afford to make a mistake.
The warrior turned into a narrow street between fire-damaged residential buildings, their roofs missing, the walls crumbling. The stink of ash still hung in the air. Another turn, and Rodin read her intention, knew she was approaching Paskia’s location from the rear.
But Paskia would have Eyes set up. She’d be on the look-out. And when she saw the warrior approaching, she’d…lay low or something.
The warrior would find her anyway.
Rodin reached into his jacket, pulled out his lance, toggled the controls for a double dose. He couldn’t trust a blade as his first weapon. With a lance, as long as the needle penetrated skin and he released the drug, his opponent would fall.
The warrior slowed, head turning to watch Paskia’s building. There was a room at the front, first floor, overlooking the main street. Decent view, especially when enhanced with a few Eyes. And there was a hatch in the ceiling, led to the roof-space, where a gap in the tiles provided an emergency exit.
Rodin held back. As the woman walked closer to the house, he ducked into an alley, ran to the rear of the building.
Vanya had scoped this location, and Rodin recalled what she’d said. The rear door was secured, an Eye trained on the back yard. The rear wall was solid, but there was no gate now, just a gap between the yard and the alley. Vanya had mentioned a trip-wire set in the gap.
Rodin pulled out his screen, scanned the area through filters. The wire ran ankle-height. Easy to step over. And then he waited by the door.
Paskia could release the locks without leaving that upper room. She’d have the rear Eye feed up, would know Rodin was waiting.
No door screen. No way to communicate. No way of knowing if Paskia was still at her station. If the door didn’t open, would that mean she’d made her escape?
The door clicked, like a gunshot. Rodin pushed it open, angled his screen round, watched reflections. Not enough light to see clearly, but none of the shadows moved.
The house was musty, warmer than he’d expected. The rear room was lined with work surfaces—old food prep, possibly work-benches. No clutter. The flooring was bare concrete.
He padded to the door in the opposite wall, put his ear to it, and listened.
No sounds from overhead. Good. That meant Paskia was being quiet. She must have seen the warrior out front, must have realised the danger.
A click. A door opening. Not from upstairs, but from ground level.
He knew the downstairs layout. The door before Rodin led into a corridor, stairs to one side, front room to the other, and the front door directly ahead.
Cool air crept around the door, rushing through the corridor from outside.
The warrior was in the house.
Rodin fought his adrenaline, steadied his breathing. He gripped the lance tighter.
The stairs creaked, but the sound was intermittent. She wasn’t using a steady step, then. Or maybe she paused to listen.
Did she know Rodin was in the house?
The warrior’s steps creaked, and still there was no sound from the floor above. Had Paskia already retreated into the roof space?
Too many questions. Focus!
The creaking changed timbre as the warrior reached the top of the stairs. Rodin eased the door open and stepped into the corridor, thumb resting on the lance’s plunger control.
It was cooler through here, damp night air wafting in the still-open front door, masking the unmistakable hint of sweat. The wooden banister was warm—she must have rested her hand on it. Rodin could almost taste her presence.
He climbed, treading to the edges of each step, lowering his weight slowly, doing what he could to match his steps to the ones above, as the warrior crept along the landing. The only light came from the moon, filtered through a window somewhere above. It didn’t help, only added more shadows.
Rodin reached the top of the stairs, saw the shadow that was the warrior. She held the handle to the front room door, easing the metal down.
A line of light cut around the door, grew brighter—not blinding, but after the moonlight even a dim light was intense, and Rodin knew the warrior was adjusting her eyes, ready to burst in.