Dominions

32-2

Rodin faced the man, looked him in the eye. With a smile, he said, “Oh, but it is. If I fail, you hired the wrong person. To those you work for, that means you failed too.”

In the stillness, Rodin heard Cat’s breath, deep and slow. The man clasped his hands behind his back.

Then he started to laugh.

“Let me tell you something. When I was instructed to hire a suitable operative, the phrase ‘hired thug’ was bandied about. But I argued that the job required stealth and finesse, and a certain subtlety that would be hard to find, especially with the limitations they imposed. This task required far more than a blunt tool. And now, you show just how nuanced a weapon you are. You play a dangerous game, but you play it well. I’m impressed.”

Rodin wasn’t. “Enough blustering. Will you help?”

Cat’s arm shot out. Rodin saw it, but only just, and as he jerked back fingertips brushed his chin.

“That was a warning,” Cat said. “If I’d been wielding a blade‌…‌I’m sure you can visualise the consequences.”

Rodin thought back to the attack in the alley, and the controlled violence of the man. Even with his blades and lance, Rodin would not want to fight Cat.

“I’ll help‌—‌maybe‌—‌but only because I want this job out of the way,” Cat said. “You’re in no position to call the shots. Clear?”

Rodin nodded.

“Good. Two hours, and you need to be at the station. I’ll arrange onward transportation too.” He tilted his head. “When do you need to return?”

That would be a complication. “I’ll make my own way back.”

“You think I can trust you? No, I want to know you’re back.”

Rodin shook his head. “That won’t work.”

“Why not?”

“I have my reasons.”

There was a moment of silence.

“If you’re discovered with‌…‌items that you should not have, then I can only provide so much protection. I called in a favour with Authority once. You need to assume I cannot do that again.”

“Fine.”

Another pause.

“You intend to use a gate, then.”

Rodin nodded.

“Which one?”

Rodin answered that with a glare. Cat stared back, but then nodded.

“I can go this far,” he said. “The pilot will take you to wherever you need to go, and will then drop you at whichever gate you use. He will report to me the instant you step from his vehicle. If I don’t hear from him, I’ll assume you’ve reneged on the contract‌—‌and will take action as appropriate.”

Rodin knew he wasn’t going to get a better offer. “I can work with that.”

“Good. So how long do you need?

Rodin calculated‌—‌journey time, things he’d need to do, conversations he’d need to have. “Four hours.”

“Make it three.”

Rodin shook his head. “Cutting it too fine. Three and a half.”

A pause, then Cat’s hat tipped forward. “Three and a half. Make sure you’re there in time. You don’t want me coming after you.”

“I appreciate your help.

Cat sneered. “Spoken like a true resident of the Dome.” Then he spun and strode toward the door, leaving Rodin with the tortured images on the wall and a smile on his lips.

At the station, Rodin strode to the door without hesitation. Even though it was plain, with no sign, he recognised it.

He knocked, and a man in white overalls opened it. “Ah, good,” he said, stepping to one side with a flourish. “Come in‌—‌almost time for your shift. Always appreciate punctuality.” He looked Rodin up and down, then his gaze darted to one side, where a woman walked along, eyes on the screen in her hand. “Don’t worry about your clothing, sir. We have plenty of spare overalls.”

The talking stopped the moment Rodin entered the room and the man closed the door. He beckoned Rodin on, through another door, onto the small platform, then into the waiting train.

As the train sped through the darkness, Rodin watched his reflection in the window. He still wore Terrell’s clothing, but already his face was changing‌—‌the smile disappearing, the eyes growing sharper. Terrell faded, and Rodin returned to the surface.

He breathed in the warm, dry air of the carriage, held it in his lungs, then slowly exhaled. He let his eyes close. The train tilted round a corner, the wheels clattering on the track.

He was going home. Not permanently, of course‌—‌at least, not yet‌—‌but for the next few hours, he’d be free. No more watching his language. No more pretending to be someone else. No more fighting with words.

Well, maybe there would be some of that. But he’d be able to use violence to back up his arguments. In some cases, anyway.

The train drew to a stop, and was met by another man, wearing a loose-fitting jacket that could have hidden any number of weapons—‌and quite probably did. The man led Rodin along more corridors, then into a small room. The man didn’t utter a word, but simply pointed to the box that sat on the table in the centre of the room. Then he turned and left, the sound of his boots echoing off the grey walls.

The box contained Rodin’s own clothes, and he stripped then put them on. There was no reflective glass, but Rodin brushed the trousers down, tugged at the jacket, felt the way the material moved with his body, and he knew he was ready.

The man in the loose-fitting jacket returned and led Rodin up stairs and to a door. He still didn’t utter a word, even when he turned the handle and stood to one side as the door swung open.

The air that rushed in enveloped Rodin in a fog that he pulled deep into his lungs, savouring the stale warmth that contained so much more honesty than the fancy fragrances under the glass. This was the smell of home‌—‌spicy food, an acidic edge, coppery overtones, and musty life.

Rodin stepped out, and looked up. There were stars, where the clouds parted, but there was no glass, no barrier to stop the light drizzle that fell, coating his face and hair, dampening down the style he’d been forced to wear the last few days.

The car was waiting, just as Cat had promised. The pilot turned in his seat, and Rodin was unsurprised that it was the same one who had driven them from Genna’s tower to the Half-way House. That made sense, keeping the number of people involved to a minimum. Rodin leaned forward, ready to greet the man, but stopped himself. Instead, he gave the slightest of nods, climbed into the back seat, and told the pilot his first destination.

With the pilot’s monologue nothing more than background noise, Rodin watched the view pass by, as if the window was a screen showing a feed or a recording. It felt almost like watching memories. He’d received the scar on the back of his right hand in the cellar of that building with the black door, and in the alley over there he’d once dispatched a pair of muggers. The bar down that lane was a regular haunt of Runner, an ugly, vulgar woman who could source just about any weapon he cared to think about. And in that house on the verge of collapse lived an old man who could easily be bribed for information.

This was home. This was where he belonged.

It wasn’t perfect, of course, and even as they drove past Rodin noticed the stains and the debris, saw the aftermath of beatings and worse. A leg protruded from a pile of plastic bags. A man slouched in a doorway, liquid pooling beneath him as he shouted incoherently. A woman ran across the street, causing the pilot to swerve as he yelled a***e.

But the imperfections were a small price to pay for freedom.

The pilot brought the car to the first address on Rodin’s list. There was a light on, second storey, far right‌—‌good. His contact was in.

“Wait,” he told the pilot. Then he stepped from the car and approached the building.

Three stops later, and the Dome felt like a bad dream.

Rodin had almost everything ready‌—‌equipment collected, services secured, promises received. He’d uttered hardly any words, sticking mainly to fragments of sentences and stern looks. He’d given a few threats, though‌—‌vague, but his reputation would fill in any blanks. Everyone was wary of a mercenary who was still alive.

But the final meeting wouldn’t be so easy.

He looked to the pilot, saw the mask of a smile as the man swivelled round in his chair.

“Genna’s tower,” Rodin said.

The pilot nodded, turned to face the front, and the car pulled away.

Rodin let his head fall back, running once more through various options, planning for every possible way things could play out. He had to convince Genna that this was for her own good. He had to make her understand that the gift he offered was well worth the price of the help he needed.

He couldn’t threaten, though, or use physical violence. He had to use words.

And that didn’t bother him like he thought it might. He’d sparred with Shae, and engaged in debate with Leopold. He’d used words as playthings and weapons.

Maybe his time under the glass wasn’t a total waste. But he didn’t want to stay in the Dome. After he’d convinced Genna, he’d have the pilot take him to the final address, the one that led to the gate, the one that would take him back across the glass. He’d find Shae, get what he needed from her, then he’d meet Leopold. One last time.