Thirty-eight days after the imperial ambassador’s murder.

West Island, undersurface, Radaar, 10:24am.

Footsteps pattered across the dingy street, boots splashing in puddles of murky water on the uneven cobblestone road. Hoods raised, Devan and Raid trotted past knots of people, mimicking the same gloom of those around them. It worked well. No one gave them more than a fleeting glance, though it was mainly the drab coats they would see. In the narrower streets closer to the crevasse wall, the strip of blue sky above provided poor illumination. Coupled with the dim streetlights, it cast the undersurface in a perpetual, sunless dusk, where shadow had claimed the land.

“Anything?” Devan asked.

“They’re keeping to themselves so far,” Raid said. “I’ll keep watch, so take the turn when I give the signal.”

“I still think you’re being paranoid about this.”

“Don’t underestimate these people, Bale.” Raid turned sideways to avoid bumping into a man. He waited for the crowd to disperse before continuing, “They may look like they’re minding their own business, but they’re always watching. Information’s the lifeblood of this place.”

“We’re already sticking out.”

Even now, most of the dwellers gave the block where the murder had happened a wide berth, picking up the pace whenever they stumbled upon the view of the infamous intersection. It would be impossible to get there without attracting any notice.

“Not enough to warrant a trip to the local gang or fixer to report it. Trust me. If we really did something noticeable, they’d flock around us like crows to a carrion.” Raid turned his head slightly to the side, peering at another group from the corner of his eye. “Keep your head down and they’ll think we’re one of the unfortunates still living here.”

A knot of people sat on a dumpster some distance ahead, chattering away as they looked towards the crime scene. Boys in their late teens, drunk on hormones and hot-bloodedness. No other reason anyone in the undersurface would stick around a place where the Emperor’s Hand had been.

“We’re good. Go,” Raid said.

They slinked into the side street, frequently glancing over their shoulders. No one followed. No one was looking. They headed for the first door they spotted. Devan stopped in front of it and fumbled in his pocket, but as soon as the passers-by from the previous street moved away from the passage, he and Raid headed to the next door. Then the next. When they arrived at the intersection, they entered the groove in the building where the killer had hidden.

“You sure you’re alright now?” Raid asked.

Devan raised his right arm, his healthy arm, and channelled. Slowly, very slowly, the Gift trickled inside him, the flows of power crawling through his arm to his hand and forming a silvery sphere above it – the basis of a ward. Two aspects were his current maximum. He’d stick with one: light. Despite pooling his focus on just that element, the complexity of the ward grew as he wove the construct for an illusion. Once it was finished, he filled it with power and the sphere grew until it encompassed the entire intersection.

“Done?” Raid asked, looking around.

Devan nodded. “The ward will make us invisible while inside, but I did nothing for the sound, nor add any compulsion to avoid this place. We should hurry.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice.”

The back alley lay frozen in a deathly silence, its bleakness chased away periodically as the nearby neon signs flickered alive, then died out. Two long furrows clawed across the ground, curving in pursuit of the ambassador’s assailant. The walls held nothing save for a few tacky graffiti of local gang names and oaths. No cameras. No windows. A blind spot.

Devan crouched by one of the furrows, looking over its length. He ran his fingers over the jagged edges jutting out of the ground and framing the hollow. Lightning, almost certainly – the tail end of a whip of power.

Two long furrows, Devan thought as he walked around the back alley. In his mind he pictured the ambassador and the killer facing each other; frozen. Then he let the scene play out. A careening dash and a deft hand with precise aim. The killer took down the ambassador with two shots. A fight that lasted mere moments. None fit the bill better than an augment as the Empire’s Hand had said. He frowned. Why the gun though?

“Found anything? You’ve been staring blankly for the last couple of minutes.” Raid shrugged. “Thought you fainted standing up.”

“A few things,” Devan said, ignoring the last remark. His eyes squinted at the two wounds in the ground, regarding them as though they were vipers ready to lash out at him. “But nothing to oppose the Hand’s words.”

“Is one of them why the ambassador conveniently walked into a dead-end street?”

“Number two.” Devan moved to where the ambassador had been lying on the ground. The report he had received from Wicker had had pictures of the crime scene while the body had still been there. “Stand here.”

As Raid moved to his position, Devan took one step towards the furrows and placed his pistol on the ground. “The killer fired from point-blank range.” The ballistics report had stated that. Two more steps. The nearest furrow touched his foot. “This is the radius of the augments’ ability. The ambassador was well within in.”

“You sure about that? The augment should have sliced him up if that was the case.”

“The ambassador’s attacks suggest it.” Devan looked over the furrows again. The damage was consistent everywhere. “Everything I’m seeing also suggests the killer – if it was an augment – didn’t use the obstruction zone. The ambassador’s attacks would have waned somewhere if that’d been the case.”

“That’s their best card. Never heard of one attacking an adept without it. It’s like a pilot stripping off his ship’s point-defence turrets and flying into a missile swarm.”

“Which is why this whole case doesn’t make. Things don’t add up. An augment that acts nothing like an augment – why go through the trouble and risk failure? Did they actually believe it wouldn’t be found out?”

A gust of wind whistled past.

“So, we got nothing?” Raid asked.

“Nothing.”

“Better not linger then. Don’t want anyone spotting us.”

Raid tossed his head back, looking up at the two buildings on the opposite side of the intersection. Light bled through the decrepit shutters of the upper-floor windows, dimming every now and again as a shadowed silhouette walked through the room.

“If they haven’t already,” he said.

Devan nodded. Breaking his connection to the ward, he watched it flicker, and when the last vestiges of power shimmered out, he and Raid stepped out into the alley leading to a neighbouring street.

A thought in the back of Devan’s mind caused him to stop. It was faint but unyielding – a feeling that he had missed something. He turned his head to examine the alley once more, but there was nothing to find.

“Two furrows.” The words rolled awkwardly in his mouth, sounding as if they had lost their meaning. He sighed, then picked up his pace to catch up to Raid.

The number of people increased as they got farther away from the crime scene, and the two easily blended into the crowd. Treading through the narrow streets, they were carried occasionally by seething currents that swept through the more tightly packed areas, where many roads converged into a single path, or where the markets were. The slow crawl they were going at irked Devan to no end. Especially after their failure to discover anything new at the crime scene.

“Why did you suggest this path? It would have been faster to go around.” He frowned as a burly man bumped against him.

“Probably.”

Was Raid messing with him? “Then why aren’t we doing that?”

“It’s not all about haste,” Raid said. “We’d have trouble meeting our fixer if we just hurried there. Gotta ring the doorbell first. Let him know we’re coming.”

So, Raid was messing with him. “And how does that—”

A hooded man dressed in rags dashed past, jostling them.

Devan felt a hand tap his coat, his trousers, and the side of his belt, searching for something to pocket – there was nothing. He reached to grab the man, but his fingers only brushed against the clothes.

Raid drew his pistol and fired.

The hooded man screamed and fell sprawling onto the ground.

The bony arms and hands clutching the wound on his thigh caught Devan’s eye first. Then it was the sickly-yellow face creased with deep lines of hunger. No wonder the man was a pickpocket. He might have been a skilled runner once, but years of malnourishment had stripped him of the muscle in his legs. He could never outrun Raid.

Was it necessary to waste a bullet for this?

One useless cog in the mechanism that was the undersurface didn’t change much. If shooting the man had gained them some advantage, Devan wouldn’t have blinked twice at the act. Did it? All he saw in this, past the initial shock, was a pointless display of violence, something that didn’t fit his idea of who Raid was. Dangerous. Skilled. Pragmatic. Not trigger-happy and sadistic.

Holstering his pistol, Raid walked over to the man, bent down, and picked up a wallet – his wallet. “We rang our doorbell.” He straightened and beckoned Devan over. “And now we have free passage as well. A double win.”

Huh.

The crowd had indeed parted, clearing a space around them, eyes glued to the pistol at Raid’s belt. Some giggled, some looked worried, some stared in wonder, and yet some ignored it all, jostling their way through the throng, throwing curses at everything and everyone nearby.

The pickpocket had managed to push himself up and stagger into a shadowed alley in the short time Devan had taken his eyes off him. Five men slinked into the same alley, clearly following him.

He wouldn’t last long.

“Nothing but hounds hunting for a credit or fighting over change that rolled onto the floor,” Raid said. “Better not to stick around. The desperate tend to forget their place quickly.”

At least they could breathe now. Cold pragmatism certainly had its merits here. Though, rather than enjoying the moment, Devan turned his thoughts on the fixer they would soon meet. They had already agreed to ask about Castwick, but as the meeting drew nearer, he doubted that decision more and more.

“You’re stuck in your thoughts again,” Raid said.

“I’m weighing our options.”

“About?”

“Whether it’s worth it to get help in locating Castwick or if we should turn our focus to…” He couldn’t exactly say the ambassador’s name or title out in the open.

“Call him Two-shot.”

Really? “…turn our focus to Two-shot. Castwick might not know anything. If she’s even alive.”

Raid turned his head towards the people who had gotten nearer over the last minute. He nodded in satisfaction as they flinched and scurried away. “You’re the one who talked about running out of time faster if our goal is found out.”

I did, Devan thought. Time was the main concern in his mission. A mistake here could set them back weeks. They didn’t have weeks. Aster had told him the Empire would be ready for war in the two months following their conversation. One month had already passed. He could hear a clock ticking in his mind.

Worlds would burn if he failed.

A sigh escaped him. Two options and both were shitty. He ran his fingers through his hair and closed his eyes, but the bustle of the street didn’t let him relax. Castwick, he thought. With the hatred the other highborn apparently harboured towards Mannock, they were a bigger threat. Their interference would stop the investigation entirely. Learning nothing from Castwick was a smaller price to pay.

“Looks like you’ve decided,” Raid said.

Devan nodded. Let’s hope I’m right.

***

West Island, undersurface, Radaar, 11:17am.

The bar that doubled as the fixer’s base of operations stood proudly on the main street, two-floored and with windows so smoke-stained that nothing on the inside could be seen. Devan opened the door and the din poured out, drowning out the noise of the bustling street. The outside air burst inside, piercing through the grey fog that had formed from the puffs of smoke rising from all the tables.

People occupied every chair save for the stools by the bar counter, only half of them taken. The patrons were all clumped together, leaving no space between them, elbowing one another, and splashing alcohol around from their thick mugs in excited or angry swings. Wet blotches stained the floor, slowly evaporating and mixing with the sour smell of sweat.

The clamour didn’t die down with Devan and Raid’s entrance, barely anyone looked their way. A trick, Raid had called it. Everyone in the undersurface paid attention; they just made it seem like they didn’t.

The barkeep, a burly man with a short beard and wearing a tatty, white shirt that had gained a shade of brown over the years, lifted his eyes off the mug he was cleaning. He met Raid’s gaze, then Devan’s. Scowling, he brought his stare back to the mug.

“We’re here to see Zyke,” Raid said to the man.

“Yeah, you and half of West Island,” the barkeep answered gruffly. He nodded his chin at the patrons. “What you see is what you get. There ain’t no fixers in my bar.”

“Zyke doesn’t leave the club downstairs.”

“There ain’t no downstairs but the cellar.”

“Either open the door on your own or move out of the way. I already know which part of the wall to break down.”

A ripple of silence passed through the bar, though for merely a moment before people resumed their talk. They had all looked this way, estimating the danger; how many they’d need to take Devan and Raid down. The answer: they couldn’t. Most were twice Devan’s size, but none were worth even half of it; he could tell from their gaze, how they sat, and what they did with their hands. Oh, they could pull the trigger with no hesitation, but they’d only seen petty street brawls and the occasional gunfight. All bark and no bite.

The barkeep finally looked up, smirked, then laughed. “You’re still the same as ever, Raid. You know the way.” He pressed a button on the underside of the counter. A part of the wall slid aside to reveal a staircase.

Another door waited at the bottom. Beyond it, music filled the air, a techno beat that swallowed the buzz of conversation and gave a degree of privacy just with its presence. Devan could no longer hear the din that had started again upstairs.

Despite the club-like atmosphere, the air had a heaviness to it. Unlike those sitting in the upstairs bar – a façade of toughness with little to show for it – the people here were worth their weight in gold. Scars worn as badges of honour, tattoos of bounties completed, watchful gazes that recognised who was a threat – they were the real muscle of the undersurface.

Raid headed towards one of the private rooms. “Let me do the talking.”

Two guards stood in front of the room, dressed in black suits, arms crossed, and scanning the crowd. The one on the right had a pair of red glasses and a tattoo that spiralled down his neck. The one on the left was a bald man with mechanical eyes. They stepped aside as Raid and Devan approached. The guards were expecting them.

Two people sat on a large, red sofa that ran along the walls. The first: a dark-skinned man, covered in cybernetics; old, if the creases around his eyes could be trusted. The fixer. The second: a woman who was the picture of calm, head tilted as she played with her dark scorpion braid. Hers were the eyes of a predator.

The man blew out a plume of smoke; two orange circles burned past the grey, the glare coming from his cybernetic eyes. “Raid. A year back I was sure you’d never come back. Unless in parts should the scavengers scrape you up from a shipwreck.” He spoke in a deep, grating voice, almost mechanical, though it wouldn’t be a surprise if that was the case. “The years kept you good. You not on the run anymore, hm?”

“Don’t rev up a dead ship’s engines, Zyke.” Raid plopped down on the sofa. “That story’s long done.”

The grin on Zyke’s face was still large. “News to me. Bigshots on the ground and even up in the clouds are still looking for you. Bring back memories?”

“None.”

“Ah, still the same. Always pleasant to see some things never change. Let me introduce you to my colleague, Macreen. Best adept in West Island.”

She crossed her legs. “I’ve heard a lot about the famous Thren Raid. They say you were a legend.” Her eyes scanned his face, his arms, then his hand which he always kept near the handle of his pistol. “Guess some of it is true.”

She picked up her drink, then swirled it, the ice cubes clinking weakly against the glass. The Gift trickled inside her and its power chilled the liquid, partially restoring the original volume of the ice. There was no stone on her palm. Devan placed her in the upper half of his potential-threat list.

“We’re here for a deal,” Raid said.

Zyke leaned back into his seat. “A captain of a freighter ship – that what you call yourself now?” He raised a brow at Raid, though the twitching corner of his lip showed he knew exactly what was going on. His eyes turned to Devan next, blinking blue. “And someone not yet in my database. How amusing. An unknown.”

“The deal.” Raid leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “We want information on someone.”

“Everyone comes here for a deal. But my hands are tied this time.”

“Don’t spout nonsense. You’ll do anything to get credits.”

“Things change,” Zyke said, and for a moment his usual relaxed tone gained the colour of distaste. “It’s that time of the cycle when gangs decide to war it out over this-or-that. Got a pile of memory cores with the many reasons they gave over the years. How can a sane man remember all that crap otherwise?”

“Even more nonsense. You’d never send out all your contracted mercs. You hate helping the gang,” Raid said.

“That I do.” Zyke grinned and reached for his drink, the mechanical limb humming in response. “Night’s fixer. He’s making trouble for me. Throws his mercs on this side of the undersurface. Clips my contracts. Thinks he’s the shit for having control over the Gambling House.” The glass shattered from the grip of his metal hand, the shards clattering on the table. He smiled. “You see my trouble?”

“We ain’t helping you with the other fixer. Credits, not favours,” Raid said. “Hire more muscle if you need to with the money you’ll get.”

“Come now, Raid. We did good work together. Remember when…”

A swirling thread of the Gift’s power formed around Raid’s head, drawing Devan’s attention away from the conversation. A mind link. His eyes darted to Macreen – she was channelling. Words alone might not stop her. Even if Raid was made aware, she could still read his mind regardless. Doing anything more, instead, could easily escalate the situation. Can’t have that. We need Zyke’s help.

This had to be subtle. He clenched his fists. The amount of power he could wield right now was too little to properly fight someone versed in mental manipulation; worse still was that Devan wasn’t proficient in that skill.

The power drew closer to Raid’s head, slipping past his surface thoughts.

Now or never. Calling on the Gift, Devan forged a tiny blade of pure force. He couldn’t win against Macreen in a direct fight, but he could disrupt her. The blade snipped at her power, the cut-off parts dispersing into wild energy that eroded her spell. Small damage, but it accumulated. As long as she didn’t get serious, it would work. It'd be over if she found out this feat was a struggle for him. Play it calm.

She blinked in surprise, then turned towards Devan. The corner of her lip rose. The amount of the Gift she was channelling increased. Shit!

Devan pushed more power into the spell construct. The flows began to quiver. Any more and his other arm would absorb them as it once had. At least his face showed none of the strain.

Raid slammed his fist on the table. “Fine!”

Both Devan and Macreen flinched. The battle they had been waging with the Gift ended in an instant.

“But you try anything funny and you’re gonna regret it,” Raid said.

Zyke’s eyes gleamed with greed. “I never back out of a deal. You’ll get the details soon. Today, tomorrow. Need to make arrangements first. Gonna be good for you. Fixer’s promise.”

By the scowl on Raid’s face, that promise amounted to more trouble than it was worth. Whatever. As long as we can find Castwick, it’s fine, Devan thought. Things couldn’t be too bad, right? He looked at Raid’s face again. No. They were worse. He resisted the urge to sigh. Hell would freeze over before anything went right.

NOTES:

Secretary has been missing for a month.

Crime scene

The ambassador was violent prior to his death. He went out to drink every night.