Dominions

25-2

He was good‌—‌his expression was still blank, giving nothing away. But there had been a moment, a fraction of a second, when his lips parted and he drew in breath sharply, a moment when he flinched.

Either he was from the Dome, or he’d been here so long that he’d assimilated into their society.

“You think you know me,” Rodin said, moving the flower‌—‌and its too-sickly fragrance‌—‌away from his face, “but you don’t know everything. I don’t enjoy violence. But I don’t allow others to push me around. I push back. Sometimes, they don’t get the message, and I have to be more forceful.” He brought his other hand across, encased the flower in it, and closed his fingers tight. A few petals fell to the ground. “You’re intelligent. I’m sure you understand.”

He opened his hand, his palm stained blue. Parts of the flower fell to the ground, and he dropped the stem. When it landed he trod on it, grinding it into the path.

The man’s face had lost colour, but he still met Rodin’s eyes. “I understand.” He swallowed. “Standing your ground is good. But it can be lonely, standing on your own.” The man pushed his shoulders back, calling on some inner strength. “There’s safety in numbers. If your force is met with yet stronger force, you might suffer defeat. But if one member of a group suffers the same defeat, that does not mean the end of the group.” The corners of his mouth turned up in a smile. “You’re intelligent, so I’m sure you understand this.”

The sun was hot on the back of Rodin’s neck, and a droplet of sweat ran down his skin, soaking into his shirt. He stared at the man, and glared. His teeth ground together, and he imagined this fool lying amongst his precious flowers, his blood soaking into the soil.

That wasn’t going to happen, but the image strengthened Rodin. He leaned in, savouring the way the man’s smile faltered, the way he tried to move away. There were dark patches under his arms, the cloying smell of sweat in the air.

“But how many people are willing to be martyrs?” he said, keeping his voice low and his tone level. He raised one eyebrow and gave the man a smile.

Then he stepped back. “I’ll see myself out.” He pushed past the man, almost knocking him into a flower bed, and left the garden.

The man didn’t follow. Rodin trotted down the spiral staircase, strode from the rooms, then jogged down to the lobby.

He’d made a mistake. He’d allowed himself to be provoked, and those protecting Leopold would surely close ranks, making this contract even harder.

It would be so much easier if he were free to‌…‌to work as he did in the districts. That gardener or watcher or whatever he was‌—‌a flash of a blade and Rodin could silence him, take him out of the frame. If he had his lance things would be even easier. He wouldn’t use Slinax on the man, but he knew where to get Lepros. A shot of that, and the man’s body would be ejecting fluids from both ends for a good few days.

But he couldn’t use anything like that under the Dome. He had to play by their stupid rules.

Why did he ever take this contract?

No. He couldn’t get riled by the situation. Rodin had to stay calm.

No.As he bounded down the stairs, he took long, slow breaths and concentrated on the movement of his limbs. By the time he reached the lobby his heart-rate was down to a normal level, and his head less clouded.

The black tiles gave off a cool atmosphere, but the sun glared in through the doors. When Rodin pushed through he had to shield his eyes.

And only then did he notice the two men by his side. They wore dark suits, and they smiled in a way that was not at all friendly.

“Sir,” the taller one said, his voice clear and polite, but lacking warmth. “We have a vehicle waiting. If you’d care to accompany us?”

Rodin’s first thought was to run. No, that wasn’t quite right. His first thought was how he could punch the man on the left in the nose, then dislocate the other man’s knee with his boot. In the chaos, he could snap a neck‌—‌the secret was in the sudden jerk. Maybe he could slam a head onto the concrete until the hair was matted and the skull caved in.

But this was the Dome. His only option was to move away from them.

“No, thanks,” he said. “I’d prefer to walk.”

“I think you’d find it easier if you joined us,” the same man said. “It would be far less‌…‌problematic.”

They were closer now, within grabbing distance. Their arms were still down, but at a slight distance from their bodies, with a fraction of a bend at the elbow. And they adjusted their stances, placed one foot a half-step to the rear.

Rodin read the signs‌—‌they were preparing for an attack.

He stepped forward. The taller man raised an arm, his open palm a thumb’s length from Rodin’s stomach.

“Please,” he said. “We insist.”

The shorter man took a couple of steps, positioning himself behind Rodin. He stayed a few paces back, and Rodin was almost impressed.

But he still needed to get away from these two. “Do I know you?” he asked, buying time.

The tall man tilted his head, raised his eyebrows‌—‌a response that could have been a yes or a no. And then he spoke once more. “I don’t believe you know us personally. But I’m sure you’re aware of who we represent.” He smiled again. “We’re Authority.”