by TW Iain
“What is it?” she asked, and resisted the urge to loosen a button at her neck or fan her face with a hand.
Erinya took a deep breath and glanced down to Shae’s chest. “It’s a delicate matter,” she said. “It relates to our discussion when we last spoke spoke.”
Shae understood. She pressed the button on the rear of the pendant. Her top was damp where it clung to her skin.
“Thank you.” Erinya glanced about before leaning in closer. “Those gentlemen with whom I was conversing—I’m sure you can intuit their standing.”
Shae nodded, voiced her suspicions. “Authority.”
“Quite. And they brought me sobering news, of a most heinous crime. In fact, more than one.”
“More than one?” she repeated, silently cursing her immature response.
Erinya nodded. “Earlier today, bodies were discovered. I can find no easy way to lead into this, so please excuse my bluntness. Fortunately, they were first seen by Authority, and they were able to obscure the scene from any other eyes, prying or inadvertent.”
“And these bodies…what of them?”
Erinya glanced at Shae, and the look that passed between them was one of sadness, tinged with pain. Shae swallowed, used the sun in her eyes to excuse the upturn of her mouth as her eyes tightened. At least, she hoped this was how the Councillor read her expression.
“Death is always sad,” Erinya said. “But it was the manner in which these people had ended their days that is the most disturbing. I won’t go into details, but both of them had clearly been the subject of foul play.”
“Foul play?” That phrase lodged in Shae’s mind, and she thought back to the conversation in the cafe. At least the two men had performed better than those she’d hired to deal with Terrell.
But there was something else in Erinya’s words, something that slipped past Shae, leaving only the sense of a missed detail. It was important, but Shae couldn’t grasp it.
Erinya nodded. “There was…much blood spilt, and the expressions on both faces were of shock and pain. Clearly, these two poor victims had known what was about to happen, and had been powerless to stop it.”
And now, the detail that had eluded Shae rose to the front of her mind.
“There were two of them?” she said. Had they only completed part of the task, or were there three more bodies as yet undiscovered?”
“Not from our Dome, but workers hired from elsewhere,” Erinya continued. “They came from the west, I believe. But this doesn’t make the crime any less abhorrent. If anything, it is worse—we have visitors, and yet they meet their end under our glass.” Erinya shook her head. “This is most disturbing, my friend, most disturbing.”
“Indeed,” Shae muttered, the word devoid of meaning as numbing darkness welled up inside. Two workers from the west—and Kern was the closest Dome in that direction.
“Of course, the matter becomes more complex the more one ponders it,” Erinya said, the words floating close by, wafting over Shae as if they were not really for her ears. “If someone—or maybe it was more than one person; I’m unaware of any details here—but if someone ended these two lives, then it is likely they are still around. And…and I don’t for one moment like the implications in that. Especially today of all days.”
Someone had killed the mercenaries Shae had hired. Their job was to remove those who planned to open the gates to the districts.
There were even more implications here than Erinya suspected. The death of those thugs must have been intentional, because someone knew their purpose. Someone wanted them out of the way so that the gates could be opened.
So that Authority’s plans could still proceed.
- 58 -
After such a build-up, Kharem was disappointed with how easy it all was.
There had been no security in the tunnels. There were a couple of gateposts, both unmanned, with doors wide open. Then there was the strange underground platform, and the rails. One group of warriors had raced up the stairs, prepped as to what they should find when they emerged onto the streets. The rest, including Kharem, waited for the train.
Many of the warriors were unfamiliar with trains, as was Kharem, but he strode onto the carriage once the doors slid open, and the others followed, Hornet still at his right. Then the train sped through the tunnel.
There was some muttered cursing, the air heavy with the scent of nerves. Kharem followed their progress on the schematic Viper had supplied.
At their destination—another platform, much like the one before—the warriors departed and waited, alert, eager. A draft of cool air flowed around them, pungent with some kind of pollen.
“They ready?” Kharem asked Hornet. The man nodded. “On your mark, then.”
Hornet stepped forward. He tapped his earpiece and adjusted the thin microphone by his mouth. Several of the warriors copied his actions, and Kharem approved—always worth double-checking equipment.
“Go.”
The warriors swarmed up the stairs, out through the exit and into the streets.
Kharem followed, walking toward the shrieks and screams, the sound of conversation fading away.
The people outside wore fancy, impractical clothing. They seemed confused more than scared, and a few even laughed as the warriors barged them aside.
Kharem surveyed the scene, matched the reality to the feeds Viper had linked for him. This was the Council buildings and gardens. Not usually so busy, but there was some event. All the most important people would be on a stage in the central plaza. As the warriors surrounded the area, subduing any trouble, all Kharem had to do was stride through the sea of bodies and take control.
Hornet led the way, clearing a path. Loudspeakers hissed, the music that had been coming from them earlier now silenced. As Kharem climbed the five steps onto the stage he sought the face of the man Viper had told him to focus on. The one who sat at the head of their council.
Head-of-Council Layman was thin, with a shock of light hair that didn’t move on his head. He wore some kind of gown over a tailored shirt and baggy trousers, and shoes that wouldn’t last a day’s serious walking.
“Is this some kind of performance?” Layman asked, his voice only cracking slightly, and his smile wavering. “An art project from Lilithong, perhaps—although that group normally have more flesh uncovered, and don’t lean toward the…the more physical attributes of athletes.”
Kharem shook his head, not even bothering to decipher the man’s gibberish. “No performance.”
The man’s gaze hardened, although his smile remained. “Then perhaps you don’t have permission for this action. If this is some kind of protest, I can assure you that you’re going about things the wrong way. If you have a grievance, would it not be better to discuss the matter? Honestly, my friend, I cannot see…”
His voice cut off as Kharem slapped him, backhand across left cheek. It wasn’t even a hard slap, but the man staggered, and a gasp rose from the others on the platform.
Six of them, including this specimen who was now rubbing his face. Three men, three women. All middle-aged, in good health, wore what were probably smart clothes that were far too impractical. And all of them stood still, unsure what to do.
They were no threat to Kharem.
“As I’m sure you’re aware, I am Head-of-Council Layman, and I demand to know what this…this disruption is about.”
The Councillor stood tall again, actually squaring his shoulders. Behind him, one of the women smiled and clasped her hands together.
Kharem spoke quietly, although he was certain the recording devices around the edge of the stage would carry his voice across the crowd.
“You run this place?”
“I do indeed.”
“In perpetuity?”
A flicker of doubt—more so than before—crossed the man’s face. “Until the next round of elections. And then, the people will decide who is t
o lead them.”
“So you’re a leader?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“You show others how to act through your actions?”
“That is what one must always strive for, yes.”
“And if your obstinacy is the cause of pain in others, that wouldn’t set a good example, would it?”
Kharem had rehearsed the words, ever since he’d been given the script, but still they felt too convoluted.
The man frowned.
“It’s time to step down, Councillor,” Kharem said.
When the man didn’t move, Kharem waved a hand—a signal to Hornet. The warrior, still on the ground in front of the stage, reached for the closest person—a young woman in a flowing dress, her hair tied back and fear in her eyes. Hornet didn’t look at her as he twisted her neck.
The crack of bone echoed around the four buildings. Hornet held her for a moment, then let her lifeless body drop to the ground.
The Councillor glanced at the edge of the stage—the woman wasn’t visible from up here—then back to Kharem, his face twitching.
“But…some trick, surely,” he muttered. “Actors. Well played, obviously.” His voice grew in strength. “But I fail to see the thrust of the performance.”
“Step aside, Layman.”
Kharem hadn’t understood why he was to use the man’s name rather than title here, but now he did. The man jerked back as if shocked. His mouth vibrated, open but no words coming.
“Still refuse?” Kharem’s next line. After a pause he signalled to Hornet again.
The next death was of an older man. Again, he fell with a broken neck, but now the snap was covered by groans and moans from the crowd, and from those on the stage.
“I…I don’t know what you believe you’ll achieve by this barbaric assault, but I assure you we won’t stand for things like this in our beloved Dome.” Layman’s face burnt red with indignation, and his arms trembled as he waved them about.
Kharem took in a breath, even though whatever scent the man wore stank, and brought his shoulders back, pushed his chest forward.
“Still won’t step down?” Kharem asked—no name this time, all threats implicit in Kharem’s tone.
The man froze, eyes wide and mouth open.
Kharem had rehearsed the move, knew it needed to be brutal, quick and effective. As he stepped forward he brought his blade up, sliced across the man’s throat. Kharem continued past, spinning, his coat swirling out, and he now stood behind the man, gave him a nudge with his elbow.
Layman, no longer Head-of-Council, crashed to the stage. Blood pooled beneath his body.
Kharem stood next to the man, pressed a boot down on his back as he gurgled, waited for movement to cease. Nobody stopped him.
Only then did he survey the crowd. They stared at him wide eyes and open mouths. Beyond a few gasps, they didn’t make a sound.
The poor sheltered fools didn’t know how to cope!
“Our complaints are not with you,” Kharem said, the rehearsed words coming easily. “There’s no need for any more bloodshed as long as everyone does what we ask. But you deserve an explanation.”
The words had sounded stilted however Kharem stressed them, and he’d cringed when he imagined Leopold saying them. But everybody listened, even the warriors, and he continued with his script.
“For too long, we’ve been forced to survive outside the glass, struggling in desperation while you’ve had so many luxuries. You call us animals, but is that any wonder when we’re forced to subsist in such squalid conditions, when we must fight for the food we need, when we must battle for simple shelter? Is it any wonder we’re pushed to such depravity? Yet we are human, just like you. We yearn for peace and happiness, for the chance to follow our dreams.”
There were variations in the speech, and Viper had told Kharem to read the mood and adjust accordingly. He looked out at the faces below him, and they looked back. There was fear, and anger, but also…confusion. Even questioning.
“We’ve suffered for decades,” he continued, “through nothing more than the accident of our births. But now, all that must change.”
Too pompous! Garrick tried to talk like this sometimes, and it made Kharem want to laugh, every time.
“This is a fresh start,” he said, skipping past swathes of poetic nonsense. “We’ve come to you with force because we had no other way of being heard. But we don’t intend to continue down that path. We don’t want to take over, but to co-exist. We want to learn from you, and to share in the good life you have. And maybe we can teach you, too, teach you how we’ve lived off the land, how we’ve survived against the odds.”
He’d argued about that line, complaining that those in the wilds lived off the land, not those in the districts, but Viper had waved away his concerns.
“It won’t be easy, for any of us. There will surely be missteps and pain. But there is no achievement without suffering. Didn’t Horace Devin himself suffer when he set up his first Dominion? Didn’t those early residents suffer as they strove to build their perfect society?”
There were nods amongst the crowd, and Kharem heard that strange double name being passed around on a whisper. There were even a couple of smiles.
He caught Hornet’s eye. The man nodded, spoke into his microphone, and the warriors around the crowd stepped back.
Kharem turned to the dignitaries—was that the correct term?—on the stage, singling out the woman who stood tallest and strongest. She had a thin, serious face framed by dark hair. Kharem couldn’t remember her name, but Viper had pointed her out as the second-highest in the Council.
“We have a great deal to discuss,” he said.
She nodded. “I believe we can find a suitable room. And we’ll need to make arrangements to accommodate your…colleagues. There are others nearer the edges of the Dome, are there not?”
Kharem nodded, and spied the screen in her hand. “They’re being kept abreast of the situation here, and will not be a threat unless they are directly confronted. I’m sure many of them would relish the opportunity to relax, though, and I thank you for your hospitality.”
Surprising, how easy it was to mimic this style of speech. It was just a case of over-stating everything.
She nodded, and turned to her colleagues, occasionally looking back at Kharem.
And it was that easy.
Of course, if they believed this Dome was now some kind of joint venture, they were mistaken. Kharem was their new Head-of-Council, and he had Authority’s permission to remove anyone who got in his way.
It was a fresh start indeed.
- 59 -
They sat on the rubble, bloodied and scarred, beneath the hole in the roof. Heat soaked in from the fire next door, the crackling of flames a constant reminder of the devastation they couldn’t see.
There was nothing they could have done. Rodin saw that as soon as the Brother’s house came into view. The orange glow showed a collapsed roof, and flames licked up from windows and doors. And on the ground lay the bodies.
Paskia trembled, the motion spreading through Rodin, twisting the wound in his stomach again. But the pain was nothing new now—wasn’t growing worse, wasn’t improving. Just another injury, a reminder of another mistake.
He should have run straight to the base. He knew that now. If he’d got here sooner, he could have given warning. Jornas would have got people out, tipped his snipers off, set the traps. And Paskia wouldn’t have died. Not necessarily. She’d climbed into the roof-space, hadn’t she? She had that gun. She could have taken the warrior out without Rodin’s interference.
Too many mistakes. And others had paid the price.
Many of the bodies were burnt and cut up beyond recognition. But there was one, right by the buckled front door, that wore a familiar coat, singed only.
With a grunt, Rodin bent down, examined the body. The eyes were open, and the hands were bound. Ther
e was blood on the body’s knees, like it had been forced to kneel. There was no longer blood flowing from the gaping blade-wound across the neck.
They’d dragged Jornas out, then. They’d forced him to watch as his base was destroyed, as his people were slaughtered. And then, they’d executed him.
There was no safe way to enter the building. Paskia helped Rodin to his feet and they retreated to the building next door. The one Vanya had suggested as a secondary base, the one they’d aim for if the Paternas Brothers’ house was attacked. She’d set it up with tight security, arranged sniper positions on the roof and from upper windows.
And the house was in ruins.
With the heat of the flames at their back, Rodin and Paskia entered, through the buckled and twisted metal door, past the walls that were pitted and bloodied. In one of the front rooms were bodies, many Rodin recognised, none of them alive.
Paskia gasped. “Irazette!” The name emerged a sharp whisper, and Rodin followed her gaze.
“Went out fighting,” he said. “Still holding blades.” The metal was bloodied. Maybe she’d done some serious damage.
Hadn’t done her any good, though.
They checked the remaining downstairs rooms, found Gorrin’s body, and others. Paskia sniffed back tears, still supported Rodin. The pain in his stomach didn’t let up.
“Colder up here,” she said when they climbed the stairs. The glow overhead gave the reason—the warriors had destroyed the roof, brought it crashing down. Both upper rooms were a jumble of rubble, the dust and debris in the air tinged with copper.
And there, miraculously, they found Vanya.
She was under a sheet of metal, wedged against the corner of the room. She must have heard Rodin and Paskia talking, because she called out, guided them as they heaved rubble out of the way. Rodin grunted at the pain, but wouldn’t stop, even when Paskia told him to.
And now they sat outside, the air both hot and cold. Vanya had let Paskia patch up the warrior’s wounds as best she could, said it wasn’t anything she couldn’t recover from. She knew she’d been lucky, didn’t talk too much about what was happening. Only told Rodin that the attack was sudden and brutal.