Dominions

9-1

9

- 9 -

The room was basic, but Rodin had stayed in worse. It had surveillance, of course‌—‌they hadn’t even attempted to hide the Eyes embedded in the corners, although it did take him longer to uncover five others. Rodin left them intact‌—‌there seemed little point in trying to hide.

After checking the place out, he took a shower, allowing himself to wallow in the harsh downpour of water, first hot enough to redden his skin, then cold enough to burn. He even used the air-dry rather than the towel.

The people in the Dome were fastidious about hygiene and appearance, and so Rodin used the powders and sprays arrayed on the shelves. There were clippers and a file, so Rodin saw to his nails. A tub to one side contained a blue waxy substance that appeared to be hair gel, and Rodin experimented with a little of it. Not that it did much to the short cut he had.

The room contained a storage unit stocked with clothing, nothing like his usual garb. But he’d have to get used to wearing fashions‌—‌shirts with fancy sleeves and collars, jackets with strange fastenings and false pockets, and shoes that would do nothing to protect his soles from rough terrain or broken glass. Totally impractical, designed to be admired.

fashionsWhen he tapped the wall screen to select the mirror setting, it was no longer Rodin who stared back.

Terrell. Not the first new identity he’d worn and, as with the others, he knew the secret wasn’t in looks alone. To play this part, he needed to understand who this Terrell character was.

He woke the hand-held screen, pulled up the relevant file, and read about the person he must become.

Terrell was in his late thirties, older than Rodin believed himself to be. This made sense, of course‌—‌when physical alterations were so commonplace, a face like Rodin’s would undoubtedly appear aged. But maybe Terrell’s hard life could also account for his weathered looks. Born and raised in Ross, one of the northern Domes, his childhood was marred by an independence of thought that led him into petty misdemeanours. Twice he stood before Authority, and he was placed under what was referred to as ‘supervision’‌—‌as a child, Terrell was too young for Correction itself.

Previous times he’d ventured into the Dome, Rodin had heard these terms, and understood vaguely that Authority ran the Dome, and that Correction was a form of incarceration. The references he’d found to it before stated that Correction wasn’t punishment, but was a way of helping wayward citizens realise their errors, and so turn themselves into perfect members of society.

This didn’t fool Rodin, though. Correction was nothing more than a way of controlling the masses.

He continued reading about Terrell. The youth buckled down to his studies, and while he had no discernible talent at creative endeavours, he did develop a keen appreciation for art, especially painting and sculpture. Rodin made a mental note to research this area in greater detail‌—‌if he was to become Terrell, he’d need to at least bluff his way through artistic conversations with conviction.

So Terrell worked hard at his studies. But he still had a rebellious streak, and was in communication with other like-minded souls. This could not be allowed, and Authority came down.

That was the phrase the reports used‌—‌Authority came down. It sounded dramatic and exciting, but Rodin knew it would have been subtle‌—‌a stranger approaching Terrell and the others, maybe ushering them into a waiting car. There would be no scene, no violence, no insults. The car would drive off, and Terrell would find himself in a comfortable room, but cut off from the outside world.

Much like the room Rodin found himself in now, he thought. And this brought home a different angle on this contract, one Rodin wasn’t too happy about.

Normally, he’d receive information on the target, maybe some specific instructions regarding the nature of the removal, but that would be it. He’d conduct his own research. But here, everything was laid out for him. Rodin was being guided, and he couldn’t shake the notion that Cat was controlling him.

But he couldn’t go back. He’d accepted the contract, and he’d see it through.

Terrell was not considered in need of Correction, but was instead ‘given the opportunity’ to start afresh in a new Dome‌—‌and there was no way Rodin could avoid the euphemistic nature of that phrase. Travelling between Domes was a rarity, something most people never even considered, so Terrell was basically being exiled.

And when Terrell arrived in Kern Dome, down in the south-west, he would have felt the judgment of those he met. Oh, they’d be civil enough‌—‌this was a Dome, so manners would be upheld‌—‌but someone travelling from another Dome was naturally treated with suspicion.

The file stated that he settled well in Kern. He found employment at an art gallery, dealing with acquisitions‌—‌Rodin understood this to mean that Terrell was involved with the buying, selling and borrowing of works of art. He ventured out into society, and even became emotionally entangled with a girl called Evonney. There were files on her‌—‌attractive without being anything out-of-the-ordinary, could trace her lineage back to Councillor Heraldo (who was, apparently, considered a great man), had a solid future ahead of her in what was referred to as guided therapy. This, as far as Rodin could make out, was some mumbo-jumbo about talking to make things better, which sounded about right for the Dome.

Rodin read on, knowing this happiness in Terrell’s life couldn’t continue. Sure enough, about a year into his time in Kern, Terrell’s life was turned upside-down one more. He acquired many pieces for the gallery‌—‌and Rodin had to remind himself that ‘acquire’, in the terminology of the Dome, did not automatically imply anything underhand. But some of the pieces turned out to be fakes, and although there was no indication that Terrell was aiming to mislead‌—‌in fact, the reports made it clear that he was as much a victim as anyone‌—‌it painted a stain on his career, and he requested transfer. With his previous record taken into account, transfer was granted, and the poor man now prepared to move to the First Dome.

Fake artworks. That must have been a major incident within a Dome, and Rodin dug deeper into the files. There were official-looking documents concerning the matter‌—‌news reports that struggled to disguise shock and disbelief beneath cold language, and opinion pieces that questioned how people could even contemplate such a fraud. Names were rarely mentioned, though, and Terrell’s did not appear.

There were a few reports labelled ‘Case Notes’ that had smaller print reading ‘Not for general consumption’, and these did mention names, along with many other details. In at least three of these reports, Terrell’s name appeared.

This was unsettling, but Rodin wasn’t sure why. He put the screen down and rubbed his eyes. Too much reading was starting a headache, and he knew he needed a break.

He exercised‌—‌if he couldn’t work his mind, and he didn’t feel tired, then he’d work his body. He stripped‌—‌there was something about exercising n***d that was particularly invigorating, and to hell with the Eyes‌—‌then ran through his usual routines.

As sweat coated his body, and as he focused on the pull and release of muscles and tendons, his mind ran free. It kicked the issue of Terrell’s name around, and slowly Rodin grew to understand why things felt off.

Terrell was an assumed identity‌—‌the man wouldn’t exist until Rodin stepped into his shoes when he entered the Dome. This meant that the records were false, nothing more than fictions to help Rodin play his part. But the reports on the art forgeries looked official. And that meant one of two things‌—‌the reports could (ironically) be excellent forgeries, or Terrell’s name could have been added to help Rodin’s cover.

That felt like too much work, as well as being too risky. There was always a chance of discovery unless every single record had been altered, both in First Dome and elsewhere. Rodin couldn’t see anyone going to such extremes.

Which left one more option‌—‌that Terrell was a real person. Maybe a troubled young man, caught up in this art fraud, was even now preparing to leave Kern Dome. Maybe he’d board one of the few trains that travelled between the Domes, through the tunnels and the concrete tubes that stuck out from the glass structures. Maybe he’d have his own carriage, somewhere secluded.

But he’d never arrive. When the train pulled up in this Dome, his carriage would be empty.

Of course, the Dome would never do such a thing‌—‌at least, not officially. But wasn’t Rodin being pulled in to do something similar? Wasn’t the fact that there was this strange half-way house, an unofficially official gateway to the Dome, an indication that things were not as they appeared?

Maybe this contract would provide more interest than Rodin first thought.

Days passed, although with no window and no clock, Rodin had to trust the appearances of Cat to gauge how many. The man would send an alert to the wall screen, then turned up a few minutes later. He said he did this twice a day, and that felt about right.

The first visit, Cat asked about his childhood. Not Rodin’s, but Terrell’s. And this was easy to talk about. After reading Terrell’s history, Rodin had already created false memories‌—‌the time he had fallen in a river when a tree-branch snapped, how he had sworn off alcohol after his first evening’s serious drinking, the time his parents had woken earlier than normal and discovered the girl in his bed, and how they both responded so differently.

Maybe this was easy to do because Rodin had no childhood memories of his own. For ten years he’d been a mercenary, slowly developing his skills, gaining scars as he learnt from his mistakes. And before that, before his very first paid job, there had been two years walking the districts, doing whatever he could to survive. He could recall being hungry and scared, surrounded by cold grey buildings with cracks in the walls. At times he thought he had once walked through a forest, big enough that he lost sight of any buildings. But before that time, there was nothing.

“It’s pleasing to hear you embellishing the basic facts,” Cat said, although there was no sign of pleasure on his face. “But tell me something of the Dome. What do you know of the Council?”

Rodin shrugged. “It runs the place. As far as I can tell, lots of people making pathetic decisions on unimportant matters. But that seems to keep the people happy.”

Cat shook his head. “That won’t do at all. I wish to talk to Mister Terrell, not some thug who can barely string two words together. Let’s try again. What do you know of the Council?”

As frustrating as Cat’s attitude was, Rodin understood. If he was to pass himself as a resident of the Dome, he had to become Terrell almost unconsciously.

He took a breath, recalled what he’d read of the council, and talked. “The first Dome rose from Horace Devin’s dominion, and that was founded on four principles, ideals the society would strive for. He wanted security for his citizens to exist in peace with their neighbours, freedom from violence and oppression, comfort in having all their physical, intellectual, spiritual and emotional needs met without struggle, and opportunities to develop in all areas without censure.” Rodin waved his arms, punctuating this recitation.