Ruban entered the flat, latching the door behind him with a sigh of relief. It had been a long day. It seemed as though Aeriel activity was escalating all across the country, not just in the capital. Today itself, they had received reports of two attacks in the suburbs and some minor incidents in the National Capital Region surrounding Ragah. He was exhausted and he could feel a headache approaching, though in a way he supposed he was also grateful for the distraction. Today was the last day of the week, the last day he officially retained the SifCo case. On Monday, he’d have to hand it over to a new team put together by the IAW brass.
The thought of it made his blood boil and he wanted to slam his fist into the wall, just to relieve the festering feeling of utter helplessness. Still, the fact remained that he was, in fact, helpless in this matter. He couldn’t even really blame Subhas. He knew the man was doing his best, and he understood – even if reluctantly – the compulsions of his uncle’s position.
None of that made this easier, though. Ruban was self-aware enough to recognise that his aversion to the situation was caused as much by his wounded pride as a genuine sense of professional investment in the case. But still, he itched to storm into the IAW headquarters and give those damned paper-pushers a piece of his mind. He would have liked to see which one of them fared better in the situation that Ruban had been in: faced – with no warning whatsoever – with the Aeriel Queen herself; nothing but a standard-issue sifblade on his person and two civilians in the room, one of them unconscious.
Speaking of civilians, Ruban spared a moment to be thankful that Ashwin wasn’t here now, having flittered off earlier in the evening to meet some ‘friends’ in the city. Ruban supposed he was going to the Zainian embassy, and let him go. If the young man had indeed had any malicious intent so far as the SifCo case was concerned, he had had ample opportunity to act on it by now. Besides, he thought bitterly, that case was no longer his responsibility, or his concern.
It was just as well. Ruban was in no mood for company and he didn’t fancy losing his cool in front of the Zainian. He walked over to the kitchenette to fix himself a cup of coffee. God knew he needed caffeine to keep himself from passing out tonight, and he needed to stay up to deal with the deluge of cases that had suddenly landed on their laps over the past week.
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An insistent knock on the door, followed quickly by another, louder one, tore him away from his thoughts. Putting his cup down on the counter, Ruban walked over to the sitting room and pulled the door open. Vikram Vaz stood on the other side of the threshold, breathing quickly as if he had just run a long distance, his eyes alight with excitement.
“Turn on the TV,” Vikram said without preamble, pushing himself past Ruban and into the flat. He marched over to the outdated television set in the small living room and flicked on the main switch. “Where’s the remote?”
“Wh-what? Vik, what on earth are you doing here? And what’s with the TV? Have you lost it?” Ruban asked, flabbergasted.
Vikram laughed. “It’s not me, my friend. The world has lost it. Turn on the TV and you’ll see. You’re the hero of Ragah once again. Hell, the Parliament attack had nothing on this. I’d be surprised if you received any less than a million marriage proposals this time. They’ll be making movies about you after this.” With that, Vikram finally managed to locate the remote under one of the sofa cushions and pressed the power button. The television flared to life.
“What are you saying, man? Stop talking in riddles and tell me what’s going on,” Ruban said irritably, making a grab for the remote. The other man dodged him – with more agility than Ruban would have expected from the academic. Apparently having a Hunter for a wife had taught him a few tricks after all – and pointed the remote at the TV again, flicking through the channels until he found the one he wanted.
The words died on Ruban’s lips when his mind registered exactly what it was that he was seeing. The screen was split into two halves. On the left hand side was playing what looked like a pre-recorded video of poor quality, slightly hazy with bad lighting. On the right, Casia Washi was talking animatedly with Ashwin Kwan.
Looking closely, Ruban finally realised why the video seemed familiar. It was not that he had seen it ever before, it was that he was in it. Frame after frame of the fight at SifCo passed before his eyes: him killing the first Aeriel; Tauheen’s arrival, her crimson-tipped wings flaring as she blasted half the wall off; him overpowered and pinned down by the Aeriel Queen as Ashwin swung the table at her; then Ruban’s final attack upon the creature and Tauheen’s escape. The scenes were blurry and ill-defined – security camera feed, he realised dimly – but there was no mistaking what was going on. Ruban was fighting the Aeriel Queen, and losing by a hair’s breadth against impossible odds.