Dominions

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Rodin knew something was wrong, even before he opened his eyes.

He lay still, and he focused. The room was dark, the window shutters still fastened. The air was cool on his face. Rodin breathed deep‌—‌no unexpected odours. On the table by his bed, his screen hummed quietly, but he knew this was nothing but the power running through the lighting in the corridor.

He reached out, swiped the screen, and tapped for visual monitoring. He ignored the clock in the top corner‌—‌he knew it was early, didn’t need more details‌—‌and focused on the image fed from the Eye above his door.

Nothing moved. Grey walls, glowing ceiling tiles, regularly placed doors that remained closed.

The audio feed still gave its constant hum, and suddenly Rodin knew what had woken him. Footsteps.

Tapping the screen, he called up the routine he’d installed, the one that recorded Eye data. He scrolled back a couple of minutes.

Still nothing.

He scrubbed back and forth. The image flickered, yet only showed the grey floor, part of the wall opposite, and the edges of two other doors.

Another flicker, then more of the same.

He scrolled back, knew there was something‌—‌he couldn’t ignore his intuition. He watched the empty corridor, the dark grey doors. The image flickered‌—‌one of the common issues with hacked feeds.

somethingOr with looped footage.

Rodin swallowed, his mouth dry. Sweat cooled on his bare arms.

He tapped again, calling up the hacked feeds from other door Eyes. Again, he scrolled through the data.

And saw the intruder.

The figure wore a hood to disguise their face. They were short, and wore a tight jacket that revealed a toned figure. They moved with confidence, never hesitating, and even when they reached Rodin’s door they didn’t glance around.

Because they knew his Eye had been tampered with.

Rodin watched the intruder reach into a pocket, then hunched over, their body blocking whatever they were doing to his door. Rodin tapped, bringing up another hacked feed, but this one was no better‌—‌the intruder was working too closely to the door, as if he knew Rodin might access other Eyes. Even when he crouched, his hands by the base of the door, he used his body to shield his actions.

Then the intruder stood and walked down the corridor. They pushed through the door to the stairwell, and Rodin lost sight of them.

But they’d done something to his door.

Tapping, he called up live feeds, focused on his door. There was nothing obviously untoward, so he ran the feed through filters‌—‌infra-red, grey-scale, heat, gamma residue.

Nothing. At least, nothing until he ran the last filter, the one he’d bought only to keep Jorren sweet.

High-intensity light flooded the scene for a fraction of a second, too quick to register with the n***d eye. But the Eye took a screen capture, and Rodin panned over it intently.

And there it was. At the base of the door, ankle-height, was a bright line, almost too thin to see. Tripcord.

It could be there only to trip him when he left the room, but the intruder had done something before stooping to the ground. This tripcord was a trigger.

Rodin spent a few minutes zooming over different images of his door, searching for anything that looked out of place. There were no marks, no discolouration when he compared the image with one he pulled from earlier footage. In frustration, he resorted to flipping from one image to the other, back and forth, back and forth.

Only then did he see it. His jaw unclenched, and Rodin breathed out slowly.

There was a bulge in the right side of the door frame, about half way down. And Rodin knew exactly what it was.

He’d used something similar on a job a few months ago. The guard had walked through the sensor, which triggered the micro-explosive hidden in the tape on the window, over the far side of the warehouse. The diversion had worked‌—‌when the guard went to investigate, Rodin slipped passed, accessed the target and removed them with a blade across the man’s throat.

But Rodin’s intruder had not booby-trapped Rodin’s door as a diversion. Their intent was far more lethal.

Rodin slid from his bedroll and dressed, hardly needing the blue glow from the screen. Still considering options, he opened the room’s storage unit and pulled out his pack.

Neither tripwire nor explosive tape were cheap. That meant the intruder had financial resources. They knew where Rodin lived, and they acted with professional calm.

Rodin reached into his pack and pulled out his work implements. There was no time for a thorough check, so he stowed only the essentials. A blade on each hip, another in the sheath down the side of one boot. Screen inside his jacket to the left, micro-Eye and roll of tripwire to the right. Then he took his lance, careful not to stick himself with the exposed needle, and stored it in the secure pocket on the left of his jacket.

With his lance in place, Rodin felt ready. He placed the remaining tools back in his pack, then added his belongings‌—‌bedroll, spare clothing, second screen, washbag. He swung it onto his back, and pulled the straps, shuffling to allow it to sit firmly.

There was nothing else he needed.

Rodin was ready to leave, but he hesitated. The visitor was a professional, and Rodin had to treat them with respect. They would have set secondary traps, and they would be monitoring his window.

But they wouldn’t be monitoring the lift shaft.

Rodin took the two paces across the room to the storage unit, then stepped inside. At the back was a metal plate that should have been held in place by four screws. But Rodin had already widened the screw-holes and lined them with a soft putty. Gripping the edges of the plate with the tips of his fingers, he pulled it free.

There was a second plate, a hand-width away, with a vent at the top. Stale air eked through, heavy with the scent of oil and grease. Rodin picked up the screwdriver he’d stored in the space between both plates, attached the flexible neck, and stuck it through the vent.

He breathed steadily, knowing it wouldn’t do to rush. He rubbed his thumb and one finger on the screwdriver’s control panel, twisting the neck to bring the tip in line with the first screw. Then he triggered the auto-rotate, and the screw slowly turned.

As he worked, he ran through recent contracts, those who might hold a grudge against him, other assassins who wanted him gone. A job like his wasn’t conducive to making friends, and no individual or organisation stood out. There were too many people who wished Rodin dead.

He removed all four screws, bringing them back through the vent and laying them carefully on the storage unit’s flooring. Rodin slid his fingers through the vent, pushed the plate gently from the wall, twisted and pulled it inside the storage unit. Then he leaned forward and peered into the darkness.

He could see nothing, but that didn’t matter. He’d practised this. He knew what to expect in the shaft.

Reaching up, he curled his fingers around the metal rim he knew was there, then eased his body through the service vent. For a moment one leg dangled, and Rodin tried not to think of the drop beneath him. Then his boot found the lower metal rim. He pushed, as close to the concrete of the lift shaft as he could, and brought his other leg out.

These metal rims ran round the shaft every meter or so. They were something to do with the mag-drives of the lifts themselves, but Rodin hadn’t bothered with the technical details. All he needed to know was that they gave him a way to reach the ladder. It took under a minute, sliding feet and hands along these metal rims, until Rodin pulled himself onto the rounded rungs.

The ladder was in a declivity in the wall, presumably so that a worker using it would not be struck by the lift, although he’d heard tales of workers being clipped and falling to their deaths. He’d heard of one lift being sabotaged, the mag-brakes failing, sending passengers to their doom. That had been a contract, the target one of the occupants. The other five passengers were probably guilty of something‌—‌wasn’t everyone?‌—‌but Rodin considered it a sloppy job. A true professional only killed the target. Uncontracted deaths were to be avoided unless absolutely necessary.

A bolt of fear ran through him, and he strained his ears. Was his intruder the kind of assassin who would send a lift crashing down on a target?

But the shaft was silent, the air so still Rodin could hear his own heart.

At the base of the ladder, Rodin took his screen out, pulled up the routine he used to hack the building’s security. A couple of taps and the service door unlocked. There was a short corridor, a flight of stone steps, and another door. This door, like the first, responded to Rodin’s screen.

He pushed through the door, and into the alley beside the building he used to call home. He’d escaped the trap.

But that didn’t mean he was free.

Rodin paused in the doorway. The night air cleared his head, but he could have done without the reek of urine, rubbish and depression that hung heavy in the alley.

Nothing moved. Flickering light filtered in from the road ahead, but the detritus piled high against the walls remained inactive.

Rodin pulled the door closed behind him, then walked out of the alley, moving quickly through the blue-white glare from the streetlight. Horrible things. Apparently, Genna insisted on them, something about giving her district’s residents security at night, but as far as Rodin could tell they simply helped the thugs see who they were beating up.

Horrible thingsHe walked fast. Never show uncertainty. But he had no idea where to go. He should see Genna, explain what had happened‌—‌after all, she’d helped find the room for him. But she despised him as it was, and disturbing her so early wouldn’t do him any favours.

Never show uncertaintyHe kept to the edge of the cracked paving, a few metres from the buildings that would once have been teeming with life. But now windows were boarded up, and doors were nailed shut. The angry streetlights showed the charcoaled brickwork, and Rodin could almost smell the smoke. His building‌—‌his ex-building‌—‌was one of the few inhabited ones round here.

And so, when a shadow moved in a doorway, Rodin clocked it instantly.

He didn’t alter his pace, but he concentrated. The shadow moved, and Rodin heard the soft tapping of footsteps, in time with his own.

Maybe this wasn’t his would-be assassin, but Rodin had to assume otherwise. His hand dropped, fingers resting on the handle of a blade.

There was a side-street ahead, to the left. Rodin turned down it, under the buzzing streetlight, and sped up. Then he stepped across the street, glancing to his side as he did so.

The person appeared under the light, and Rodin saw a familiar image‌—‌tight clothing, small body, hooded top masking facial features.

Rodin adjusted the weight of the pack on his back, and walked on. To his right was a chain-link fence, a large industrial building set back behind it. On the other side of the street was a row of trees that Rodin knew bordered a wasteland, long grass hiding discarded plastic and rubble.

There was no housing. No witnesses, and no chance of interference.

Rodin slowed, patting his pockets. He shook his head, as if he’d forgotten something, then turned, letting his shoulders slump. As he walked toward the intruder he concentrated, and even without looking up he saw movement, saw the thin metal spike that protruded from the intruder’s hand.

He almost laughed. When so many assassins used blades or even guns as their primary tool, it was fitting that Rodin’s assassin would use his own tool of choice.

They rested their thumb over the button, ready to inject their d**g of choice the moment the needle pierced skin. Rodin’s preference was Slinax, a powerful fast-acting sedative, but he knew he was in a minority in this. He had to assume the lance his intruder held contained something lethal.

The man bent his knees, brought one arm across his body as a barrier. The lance was firm in his hand, the needle pointed to Rodin.

Rodin walked on, muttering to himself now, keeping up his pretence. They were only a couple of paces from one another. The attacker barely came up to Rodin’s shoulders, but those who were small were often fast. Rodin had to be ready for anything.

Two steps. Rodin exhaled and shook his head again, still playing his role. One step. He saw his attacker’s right arm pull back a fraction.

Now.

Now.As the arm flew at him, Rodin stepped in, turning sharply. Slammed his shoulder into the attacker’s chest and grabbed the man’s wrist.

The man stumbled back, but he recovered quickly. Rodin ducked to avoid the fist, spun out of the way. As the man turned, Rodin kicked hard. His boot connected with the side of the man’s knee. Bone cracked, and the man dropped to the ground.

Rodin stamped on the hand holding the lance, and the man grunted, high-pitched. Then Rodin dropped, a well-aimed knee striking the man’s chest. Rodin pulled the lance from the shattered fingers and held the needle to the man’s neck, thumb resting over the button.

“Who?” Rodin kept his voice low but firm.

The man’s masked head shook. A refusal to comply. But his eyes were visible through holes in the mask, and they were wide.

They showed more fear when Rodin pushed the lance, the needle piercing the man’s flesh.

“Who are you working for?”

But the man shook his head again.

At one time, Rodin would have admired such tenacity. But now, he saw only stupid stubbornness.

Rodin pushed the button. The man cried out, high-pitched, and started thrashing about. Rodin held him down, struggling as the convulsions grew more violent. The cry became a gurgle, and the man started to froth at the mouth. Spittle flew as his head jerked back and forth.

The convulsions eased, and finally the man lay still. Rodin checked for a pulse, found none, but used a blade across the man’s throat, just to be sure. Then he reached for the mask and pulled.

It wasn’t a face he recognised. And it definitely wasn’t what he expected.

Rodin looked down at the large blue eyes beneath the fringe of blond hair. He took in the small nose, slightly upturned, and the thin cheekbones. He noted the smoothness of the cheeks, the skin so young and feminine.

It made no difference that they’d hired a female, but she was barely old enough to be a woman. And it bothered Rodin that she was so good. Her training must have started when she was a small child. That couldn’t have been her own decision.

Rodin knew this could reflect badly on himself. Others‌—‌Genna‌—‌would see a girl first, an assassin second.

And he was being watched.

The figure stood in the shadow of a tree on the edge of the wasteland. He was tall, wearing a long coat, his hands in the pockets. His face was further shaded by a wide-brimmed hat.

The clothing was out of place, impractical. But the man stood confidently. He made no move toward Rodin.

The stranger’s head nodded, the slightest of movements. He reached up for his hat, grabbed the rim and pulled, like he was greeting Rodin.

Then he turned and walked nonchalantly away.

Rodin resisted the urge to chase after him. There was a confidence about the man that unnerved him.

The man rounded the corner and disappeared from sight.

Rodin glanced down at the girl, the lance still stuck in her neck, and then he stood. He took a breath, held it for a few seconds before releasing.

A dead assassin and a mysterious stranger. And the sun wasn’t even up yet.

This wasn’t the best start to the day.