Dominions

13

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- 13 -

Rodin allowed himself two days. That, he considered, would be long enough to settle into a routine with Sertio. Then his real work would begin.

Over drinks‌—‌and Rodin had no difficulty finding his way around Sertio’s food prep‌—‌the artist discussed day-to-day arrangements. Sertio normally rose long after the sun was up, and he would expect a breakfast prepared for when he finished his morning ablutions‌—‌bread, meat, cheese, fruit and coffee. Then he would prepare himself mentally, enter his studio, and work. He would stop for a light lunch, after which he would either continue or, if the muses had not blessed him with their presence, he would attend to other matters, or maybe take a rest.

They would eat their main meal in the evening, Sertio said, unless there were plans to join others in a social function.

“And how often might that occur?” Rodin asked.

Sertio sighed. “That, my friend, will vary. There are times when I am called upon to attend functions every night, but I am currently in the midst of what might be termed a fallow patch. With my work progressing so slowly, I find I am in no mood for such socialising.”

The artist continued quickly, obviously eager to leave that subject alone. He talked of how he expected the place to be kept in a reasonable state of cleanliness, including his own rooms‌—‌these, he told Terrell, could be attended to while he was in the studio. Terrell would also be expected to order supplies as required.

And that was it. A bit of cleaning and cooking, possibly some socialising when Sertio rose from his depression, and the rest of the time was Rodin’s own, to fill as he saw fit.

There was much to do in that time. Rodin needed to learn more about the target, this Councillor Leopold. Connected to that, he wanted to understand the Council itself, and familiarise himself with the area Leopold lived in. He would also need to read up on current fashions. If he were to socialise with Sertio, he did not want to stand out. No more than could be helped, anyway.

And then there was his body. Two days might not sound like a long time, but Rodin’s body, like any machine, functioned best when it was regularly maintained. He needed to exercise.

So he was pleased at the size of his suite. He’d been expecting a room like the one in the half-way house, but Sertio’s guest suite was a mansion compared to that poky hole. The space was divided into a large sleeping area and an even larger day-room, with a sofa, an easy chair, a wall-screen, and even a small food-prep area. The shower shared a spacious room with a sunken bath and two sinks (and, of course, the toilet). And in the sleeping space, the double bed had space aplenty around it, even with the high-backed chair, the desk and stool, and the storage unit that covered the whole of one wall.

There was more than enough space to run through exercise routines, and on his first evening Rodin prepared a schedule to follow. He wondered about acquiring some equipment, possibly a set of weights, but when he opened the two bags that had been placed in the suite, he was pleased to discover some high-intensity bands that would be fine.

The luggage also contained containers of hygiene products‌—‌far more than was strictly useful, but he’d at least smell like a resident‌—‌along with more clothes than he thought he’d ever owned before.

They were all impractical garments, though. They restricted movement, had far too many superfluous flaps and belts, and the material itself was clearly designed for image over practicality. He doubted any of them would keep the wind off, or provide any kind of protection.

But this was the Dome‌—‌what did he need protection from?

Over those first couple of days, Rodin stayed in Sertio’s apartment, moving from studio to living area to his own suite. He cleaned Sertio’s suite, too, although only once. The man spent much of the day hidden away in there, only venturing out for food and the occasional short trip up to the studio.

The artist was not happy. It didn’t take much to figure this out. Oh, he was amiable enough, talking away whenever he was with Rodin and so on. But Rodin saw his true self when he came down from the studio, before he realised that Rodin was there. Then, his brow would be furrowed, and he’d mutter to himself.

Rodin didn’t mention this, but did his work as best he could. He prepared meals, and Sertio appeared to enjoy them. He kept the place spotless‌—‌easy to do when the Dome had so many labour-saving devices, like the little wheeled box that trundled around, sweeping and mopping while spraying a fragrance into the air that also (Rodin discovered after a little reading on the matter) neutralised germs in the air. The utensil stores were the self-clean varieties, and there was a laundry machine that gave out fresh, clean items. There was even an auto-food dispenser, although Rodin didn’t use that. He couldn’t become too accustomed to all this lazy luxury.

But two days cooped up in the same place didn’t sit well with Rodin, and he felt the itch to walk. There was only so much research he could do through a screen, after all. On the third day, while clearing away their lunch, he broached the subject with the artist.

“Sertio, I was wondering if I might use this afternoon to see some of the sights of this fine Dome,” he said.

Sertio was still at the table, using his fork to m******e the chunk of cake on his plate. He looked up, surprised. “Oh, my dear Terrell, that you should need to ask such a thing! Of course you may venture beyond these rooms. I must apologise if you were under the impression that I required you here at all times. No, no‌—‌as long as the place is clean, and my meals are prepared, you are free to come and go as you please.”

“Thank you.” Rodin poured himself another glass of tea‌—‌rosehip this time‌—‌and took a sip as he stood. “I thought it best to check first, to inform you of my intentions.”

“Of course, of course! And do you have anywhere in mind? The Giorian gallery has a fine exhibit by Paulio at the moment.”

Rodin had already found out about the largest art gallery in the Dome, reputedly the largest in any of the Domes, and he intended to check it out at some point. But not today. “This is all new to me, so I thought I would simply wander. I found this to be beneficial when I‌…‌when I moved to Kern Dome. Walking with no clear destination allowed me to see my surroundings in a way that felt‌…‌connected to me.” He shrugged. “I’m not sure if that makes any sense.”

And he couldn’t explain his real reason‌—‌that he needed to know the place so that he could plan Leopold’s removal. The more he knew, the better his chance of success.

“Oh, it does, Terrell. You seek to assimilate yourself with your new home, to settle in to the wider expanse of our illustrious Dome. And maybe I should follow your example. Yes, I too will take a break from the normal routine. As you devote your time to learning of our great Dome, I’ll spend my time in some diversion from my art. Yes‌—‌while you are out, I will wallow in luxury! I will watch mindless entertainments, and I will eat more of this fine cake.” He shoved another chunk into his mouth, and moaned. “Cake this good, I may well finish off the whole thing.”

Rodin wore a light jacket. The temperature was warm, but not hot, and there was no rain coming‌—‌he’d checked the reports before leaving Sertio’s building.

He looked up, and could just make out the lines that crossed the glass so far above his head. A few clouds rolled lazily beneath the dome, and the sun filtered through them weakly.

Better weather than in the districts, he thought. But the Dome always had better weather. Sealed off from the outside world, they had to make their own, using tech that Rodin had no chance of understanding‌—‌water vapour held together by some kind of electro-magnetic force, ion polarity shifting the air pressure to give wind, solar energy stored and then released under strict protocols. A whole weather system controlled by man.

Better weather than in the districtsHe remembered that from before, when he’d stayed for a week. He recalled checking the reports and planning his day, in the full knowledge that there would be no surprises in the weather. When dark clouds rolled in, but the report stated no rain, people ventured out without waterproofs, or those annoying umbrellas they enjoyed so much.

The technology was undoubtedly impressive, but it felt so wrong to Rodin. Wasn’t nature supposed to be unpredictable?

People smiled as Rodin walked by, many greeting him as if they already knew him. He returned their greetings, and shook their hands, conscious not to grip too hard. They stood full-on, not in a more defensive side-on stance, and when he glanced at their hips Rodin saw no weapons‌—‌at least, none that were obvious. Some of the shirts and trousers and dresses (and weren’t they impractical items?) they wore had so many folds and ruffles that it could be hard to tell where their body lay, let alone detect any bulges.

Some asked his name, and after an initial reluctance‌—‌why did these strangers want such information?‌—‌Rodin opened up. He said that he was Terrell, and that he’d recently accepted a position as an assistant to the artist Sertio. Mentioning that name drew smiles, and hands clasped his shoulders, these strangers wishing him well, praising him for his good fortune and, in many cases, asking him to remember them to Sertio. It seemed that the artist had a great many friends‌—‌or, at least, there were many within the Dome who wanted to call Sertio a friend.

Rodin didn’t consider he had friends, but the word was used so freely in the Dome that it had no meaning. Wasn’t friendship supposed to be a strong bond? These people used the term for everyone.

everyoneRodin walked a meandering route, letting his feet guide him. He paid attention to his surroundings, though, taking in all he could. The buildings he now passed were set back from the street, and he ambled past lush lawns and sculpted shrubbery. Paths wound through these gardens, leading to polished doors set in smooth brickwork, much of it painted in various colours. Windows gleamed, and some opened onto containers of brightly-coloured flowers.

Signs of permanence. Those living in these properties didn’t expect to move. They didn’t have to worry about being thrown out, or of fires ripping through the building. They didn’t leave the building with the concern that they might return to find everything gone.

Signs of permanence.Safe, yes. But also dull.

The air was filled with meaningless chatter‌—‌comparing clothing, talking about alterations, discussing who said what to whom. Mindless gossip.

The next street didn’t have grassed gardens, but a wide paved area reached from the street to the buildings. Rodin followed the patterns created by different coloured slabs, understanding how they defined paths that were almost maze-like. Surely this was some game, some attempt to make walking ‘fun’.

He’d seen these patterns before. The blue route that twisted back and forth led to that large building, the one with the fabric awnings stretching out, with the tables and chairs of a cafe arranged outside. There was a name over the door‌—‌Remidion‌—‌and Rodin knew that name.

This was where he’d stayed, the last time he was under the glass. He’d arranged a room through a fixer, over in Dephloren’s district, who’d also sorted out money for him. They’d explained how the Dome’s economy was fixed, how residents were paid for their work by the Dome, and when they bought things that money went back to the Dome. The total amount under the glass was rigid, and there was no way to simply take more in, or to remove funds.

But accounts could be mimicked, and the tech behind cards could be tricked into shuffling the money along different routes. Yes, these irregularities would be discovered in time, and gross misuse was not recommended, but for short stays such hacks were fine.

Rodin paid the fixer well, for both the account and the room. And then‌—‌because he didn’t want any attention‌—‌he made sure she could never tell anyone what he’d done.

Rodin walked on, following the map in his memory, the one he’d spent so long studying in the half-way house. The street he was on, Merchant’s Way, stretched to the left in a long arc, buildings set back that looked like very high-end stores‌—‌lone items on display amid subtle lighting and subdued colours, no labels to indicate prices, greeters at each door fawning over every potential customer.

The Dome might set itself up as the perfect society, but there were still strata, just like in the districts. There were those with influence and control, and the masses beneath them. Maybe there was a hidden level lower down. They wouldn’t be like the down-and-outs in the districts, of course‌—‌although not many of them survived more than a few weeks, being easy pickings for anyone out for a bit of recreational violence‌—‌but maybe those lower down in the Dome lived in single rooms, and only had a few items of clothing. Maybe‌…‌maybe they only ate out once a month, or didn’t attend as many social events.

But Rodin knew this was a good area. And up ahead was the residential complex known as Horace Place, named after the man who started the very first Dome so many years ago. And in Horace Place was Salmon Avenue.

goodCouncillor Leopold had rooms here. Number 7, suite 5.

The whole area was quiet. The buildings were all individual, some single-storey, others stretching up over five floors, all immaculately presented. Windows shone, stonework looked either polished or antique, doors were painted in a manner that suggested subdued ostentation‌—‌just a hint of bright metalwork, or a sheen that glittered at certain angles. Before the buildings were gardens, the grass unnaturally uniform in colour and length, flowers and shrubs placed minimally but clearly highly designed. White stone paths meandered from doors to gates in the fences that circled every property.

Rodin walked nonchalantly, but he paid attention to security. The fence was only a man’s height, easy to climb, and he doubted that the gates were locked. There were Eyes over doors, but they were angled down, serving more to allow communication than to alert those inside of potential trouble. A few upstairs windows were open, and the walls looked easily scalable.

Building 7 was no different. From the plans Rodin had studied, he knew that Leopold’s suite was on the third storey, and he eyed the windows on that level with interest. Some appeared sealed, unable to be opened, but there was a small window by the corner of the building that was ajar. And there was a stone pipe running alongside it, possibly a drainpipe, that allowed for a climb up to it.

If it came to that. Rodin reminded himself that the contract called for an apparently accidental remove. But it was always sensible to consider all possible options. And maybe he’d visit Leopold’s rooms when the man was out, just to get to know the target in more detail.

When Rodin turned, heading out of Horace Place, he didn’t have to force a smile when he greeted those he met.

A lack of security, a quiet area, and easy access to Leopold’s property.

This contract should pose no problem.