Estranged

Strike

htly. “Ah, Scotty-boy talks. He just doesn’t when he doesn’t have to.” He stood, all six-and-a-quarter feet of him, slotting his pistol into its holster and turning just in time to see a woman stride in through the hangar’s entrance. Two men followed in her wake, carrying a black suitcase between them.

Gringe and Aliyah walked over to Whylan and Scott as well, reaching them just as the woman and the trunk-lifting duo did. “Sir,” the woman saluted Gringe, then—straight-faced—flipped off Whylan and Scott in order.

“Oh my precious Praetor,” Whylan preened mockingly. “How you warm the cockles of my heart.”

Praetor flipped him off again. She gestured at the men behind her. They drew nearer, lowered the trunk to the floor, saluted Gringe, and promptly exited the hangar, leaving just the five of them alone. The trunk was unadorned, just one huge seamless box of black with two handles at each end and a scanner built into its top. Praetor held a key over the scanner. It beeped, sliding open with a drawn hiss. “They approve of your war, sir,” she said as Whylan let out an impressed whistle at the items in the trunk. “Fresh from Level 1, three ExoSuit cores and four proton beams.”

Gringe shook his head, giving the weapons a hard look. “This isn’t approval, Praetor. It’s a test.”

***

This was the second-highest building in Doranne, and it provided a different experience to her Eyrie Towers. Where her home and base soared beyond the clouds, offering an admittedly breathtaking view of the skies above the district, here—atop the widest, largest of all the Level Walls—she was presented with two scenes that held more value to her than the sun or moon.

It was the first thing they had done upon getting here; to stand before both transparent glass walls of their meeting area and behold. To the left, within the outer wall of Level 3, yawned the entirety of Doranne; a landscape that had slowly begun to feel like only one thing to her: her empire. And to the right, outward of the outer wall, lay desolate land as far as the eye could see—the outside world; the remnant of Old Earth.

This meeting area was built right on the boundary of New Earth, in one of the seven sectors that comprised RoseField. The sectors directly bordered the three-hundred-meter-high Level Wall. She had begun to go around visiting the other members of the Seven in their respective sectors, harbouring a strong hunch that one of them was conspiring with the District Head.

And there was none who would have been more motivated to do so than the woman sitting across from her right now: media tycoon and owner of this ingenious meeting area, Jebba Synthë. Jebba looked like a woman in her mid-thirties but was actually closing in on fifty. Her deceptive youth often lulled people into a sense of complacency, but Wilda had always been wary of her. No one could truly look into Jebba’s eyes and mistake what was there for innocence or naivety. Of any of the Seven, she posed the greatest threat to Wilda.

“We have looked upon the district and what remains of the old world,” Jebba began, quietly stunning in a rich red gown. She waved at the empty dishes on the table, “We have dined and exchanged pleasantries. Will we get to your real purpose for being here?”

Wilda nodded. “Our shares of RoseField are what validate our power, what makes us the Seven. And while that control over its sectors is implemented through our individual resources, the fact is, RoseField is the one thing we have that the government doesn’t.

“I greatly outstrip the six of you financially, but not collectively. This superiority in wealth lends me more influence than any one of you alone, and with influence comes leadership. Yet I know that if I try to overextend beyond the power you six allow me, you will bandy together and come for me. It will cost vast sums in wealth and lives, but you might just have a chance at overwhelming me.

“And so I respect this delicate balance we maintain, knowing that certain power, even if shared, is safer than possible annihilation. Then comes the District Head in all his blundering, self-important righteousness, claiming that he wants to clean the city, citing regaining control of RoseField, the very source of our power, as his mission. This is the biggest threat to our balance, one I will not allow to grow beyond its current level.”

Jebba replied, “I agree. It would be terrible if what you fear is true. That one of us is secretly working with Mister Gringe.” Her face darkened. “Can you imagine? A native of Level 2 wanting to clean up our district? The sheer gall on him.”

There was that aspect to consider; that the aristocrats of Level 1 and the middle class of Level 2 reinforced their status by segregating themselves from those in Level 3, and so the District Head claiming that it was his goal to revive the Level was an insult to their faces. It was easy to see how one could take offence at that. But not Jebba Synthë. Because Jebba would not have missed the underlying insight there: that if any of the Royal Family had a vested interest in preserving the status quo in Level 3, then there was only one thing stopping them—the Seven—and having Gringe destabilize the Seven’s power aligned with the Royal Family’s wishes.

Wilda probed from a different angle. “Serevus told me the identity of the District Head’s aide. Apparently, it’s someone you’ve got quite close ties with.”

Unflustered, Jebba responded, “Then Serevus must have told you how I haven’t been in contact with Aliyah for years.”

A silence passed, both women in total control of their expressions. “Well,” Wilda observed her carefully, “I’d like for that to be rectified.”