Dominions

25-1

25

- 25 -

Sertio was still in the studio when Rodin returned, so he poured himself a glass of water and cleaned the food-prep. If he gave his body something to do, his mind would be free to contemplate what had happened.

Shae had threatened him.

True, her language had not been blatant, and it was a far cry from an assassination attempt. But this was the Dome. Her words, surely, were enough to warrant a call to Authority.

Not that Rodin would do that. He’d deal with things himself.

But how? She was protecting Leopold. She’d been on the lake, and she was in the Council buildings earlier. She was close to Sertio, and was also Paskia’s guardian.

Too many connections.

Rodin wasn’t sure he’d played the game well with Shae, either. If she knew who he was‌—‌or at least knew that he was from outside the Dome‌—‌why keep up the pretence of being Terrell? Would a threat of his own force her to back down?

But how could he do that? He was Terrell. Rodin had to stay deep inside. He had to play the part.

wasIt was all about image, all about being fake. Just like the Council gardens themselves. Oh, they were pleasant enough to look at, but flowers weren’t supposed to grow in neat rows. And grass wasn’t naturally held back by paths. It was nature in chains, just like that ridiculous roof garden.

He glanced out of the window, and the door at the end of the garden opened. A figure appeared, carrying a large jug. They walked along the rows of plants in their raised beds, tipping liquid over their heads. Rodin shook his head. No deep roots reaching down to water-rich soil, that was the problem. But what did you expect when you took something from its natural environment?

That brought back his conversation with Leopold, and he wondered what would happen if the glass was gone. Would the residents inside become the prey, and those in the districts become the predators? Undoubtedly, there were many in the districts who would take advantage of the child-like Dome residents, but surely things would settle into an equilibrium. Wasn’t that what happened in the districts? Genna’s showed this most clearly, but even someone like Garrick, who ruled with threats and violence, kept a kind of order. Those who lived in his district knew that, as long as they were sensible, they stood a good chance of seeing the following dawn.

Rodin set the auto-clean to polish the floor, and drained his glass. He heard a staccato laugh from upstairs, and he pictured Sertio suddenly seeing the piece from a new angle, or in a new light. No doubt the artist would attribute it to the standard crutch of his muses.

A flash caught his eye, from the roof garden. The man held what looked like a screen before his face. It wasn’t a natural position for reading a screen‌—‌the man’s arms would soon tire, and there was something unnatural about reading at eye level. But maybe he was doing something else, like‌…‌like recording with the screen’s rear Eye.

Why would someone be taking footage of Sertio’s building?

Thoughts collided in Rodin’s mind, connections forming.

Shae knew Rodin worked for and lived with Sertio, and she must know the artist’s address. She had an accomplice at the lake. And she’d told him that there were many others protecting Leopold.

If they knew of his presence, he had to assume they’d been tracking him from the moment he entered the Dome. And they’d be watching him as much as they could.

Even as Rodin understood this, he was descending in the lift. By the time he realised he needed answers he was walking across the lobby, nodding briefly to the concierge before emerging onto the street.

There was nobody around‌—‌at least nobody he could see. He didn’t run to the next building along, but he might as well have done. How do you avoid drawing attention to yourself when you’re the only one on the street?

The building was much like Sertio’s‌—‌large cool lobby with subtly-positioned plants, and a concierge’s desk. This one was empty, though, and Rodin glanced round, seeking Eyes. None visible.

That didn’t mean he wasn’t being watched.

He ignored the row of lifts and pushed through the door to the stairs, taking them two at a time. He savoured the warmth in his thighs and the increased rise and fall of his chest. He knew his faster heart-rate helped prepare him for whatever awaited him on the top floor.

The stairs ended at a lobby, with a single lift and a door. He could’ve hacked the building’s security, opened the door himself, but why make things harder for himself? And why slow down, when he knew the snoop was at home?

He pressed his hand on the door screen, saw it change from red to yellow, then to green.

A tall man opened the door, and before he spoke a word Rodin knew it was him. The man from the lake. Same thin but powerful build.

But Rodin had seen him somewhere else, too. His loose-fitting shirt had short sleeves that revealed muscles that were no doubt fake.

“Can I help you?” he said, the voice friendly, almost playful.

Rodin placed a hand on the man’s chest and pushed. He swung his arm, knocking the man’s hand from the door, and forced his way in.

“You can start by telling me who you are.” Rodin kicked the door shut as he scanned. The short corridor ended in an open door, through which he could see a couple of sofas. There was another door, to the right, and it was closed. He could hear no sounds apart from the man’s breathing.

The man’s chest rose and fell with a regular rhythm, and his heartbeat was not strong enough for Rodin to feel‌—‌and that meant he was relaxed. With Rodin’s hand still on the man’s shirt, he stood motionless. His face showed no expression, but his eyes were cold.

“Forgive me if I appear discourteous, but I’m not inclined to divulge personal information to someone who forces their way into my rooms.”

Rodin glanced round the featureless walls. “Your rooms? And you’ve been here how long?” He caught the aroma of soil, and glanced down. The man’s fingernails were dirty, and there were flecks of mud on his trousers.

The man shook with a kind of laugh. “Maybe I’d be in a more talkative frame of mind if we weren’t standing in my vestibule. Would you care to see my roof garden?” He waved a hand. “At least, see it up close.”

Rodin’s free hand dipped to his waist, but he wore no blades. He had only his body, and whatever improvised weapons were lying around. There was nothing obvious close by, but there might be on the roof‌—‌didn’t gardeners use all kinds of metal implements?

A thought crossed his mind‌—‌this man might have weapons concealed in the soil. For a moment he considered forcing the man to talk where he stood‌—‌there were plenty of ways he could do that‌—‌but reconsidered. How likely was it that the man would risk anything physical out in the open, where others might be watching?

He nodded. The man motioned for Rodin to walk, but Rodin shook his head. “You first.” He grinned. “Be a good host.”

Rodin removed his hand from the man’s muscular chest, and the man nodded, giving the slightest of smiles. And now Rodin recognised him‌—‌the man from the train, when he’d first entered the Dome.

“Very well,” the man said. “This way.”

Rodin followed, into the living area and up a spiral staircase. He kept his distance and held his hands high, ready for the back-kick aimed at his head. But the man showed no signs of aggression.

At the top of the staircase was a small room, the door already open. The man stepped out into the sunlight, and Rodin followed, moving to the left. He kept his back against the wall, and his legs bent. He scanned the area‌—‌no obvious weapons, but he couldn’t discount hidden ones.

The man tilted his head back and closed his eyes. “Ah, so much better! Fresh air and sunshine always help clarify things, don’t you find? It’s why I’m so pleased to have discovered this place.”

“And the view it offers,” Rodin said, nodding his head to the building next door. He saw the row of windows, starting with Daventree’s office and ending with the small one in the food prep area. On the storey above were the windows to the studio itself, a line of narrow glass just beneath the sloping roof.

At least, from this angle, the man would not have been able to spy on the modelling sessions.

“Of course,” the man said. “A view such as this can be most instructive.” He paused, watching Rodin like he was expecting a response.

Rodin gave none, simply glared back. The man huffed, and placed his hands on his hips.

“So, you force yourself into my rooms, make demands of me, and now you remain silent. You do realise such manners are simply not acceptable, don’t you? I really should throw you out.”

Out of your rooms, or out of the Dome? thought Rodin. “I want you to stop watching me,” he said.

Out of your rooms, or out of the Dome?“Watching you?”

Rodin snorted a laugh. He wasn’t going to play that game, so he stared at the man, refusing to speak. He breathed steadily, checking out the man’s clothing. His trousers were tight enough that they didn’t appear to conceal any weapons, and although the shirt was loose, it flapped too freely to be catching on anything hidden.

Then the man laughed, and spread his arms “You see the view here? Yes, I can see where you live and work‌—‌that place, right?‌—‌but I can see other buildings too. And they can see me. As I said before, I enjoy the fresh air and sunshine. I might also add that I don’t appreciate being watched either.”

Rodin considered his options, and saw only two possibilities. He either got the man inside then used whatever force was needed to make him talk, or he tried to outsmart and out-talk the man up here.

There was, of course, another option‌—‌strike the man and damn the consequences. But that would indicate a loss of control.

He glanced round at the flower beds in their wooden frames. Everything was so tidy, so ordered. The soil was level, there were no weeds, and the paths around these beds were clean. The small lawn area was trimmed, the edges straight.

The man had his arms crossed now, a few veins prominent as they crossed muscle. But the man was as manufactured as this garden. His body was the result of surgery, of procedures and drugs and artificially introduced hormones, just as these plants lay in unfamiliar soil, bred for colour or aroma or hardiness, protected from predators.

All fake.

Rodin reached down for a blue flower. He had no idea what it was called, and frankly he didn’t care. The stem was soft, collapsing beneath his thumb and finger.

“I don’t like being played with,” he said. With a jerk of his hand he snapped the stem and raised the flower. Liquid dripped to the soil, then to the path. Rodin brought the flower to his nose and inhaled, all the while studying the man’s reaction.