Redan, Public Attorney.

Date [standardised human time]: September 7th, 2123

(12 years, 11 months before the invasion of the radji Cradle).

Thunder rumbled in the distance—looked like rain.

The summer storm cast Bendara in oppressive grey tones, and the halls of the judiciary were faring little better. It was an old building, stuffy and aristocratic, draped in tapestries more ancient than measure; a domed marble anachronism in a world of glass and steel. Redan sat at his shared, cluttered desk. People bustled about wearing tight lipped, tired expressions, bringing him an endless pile of paperwork, the ceiling seeming to get lower every day. The attorney had always been a small man, but now the weight of his years were uncomfortably real, and even the building itself was trying to drag him down.

He had brought up the news feed on one of his displays, the same story running as when he’d last looked. A school, a fire, a budding young arsonist.

He couldn’t look away. It felt… significant. A miscalculation, or a gambit?

The nauret Damar—her hulking form taking up all of the frame—spoke directly to the camera. “This tragic event has deeply saddened my daughter and I,” the ambassador rumbled, the logo of her Meredahn Consortium chasing her name across the screen. “This was a fine school, rich in its culture and teaching, and will be again! Our children deserve to be safe, they are our future. With this in mind, and as a gesture of goodwill, we are supplying the funds to rebuild and rejuvenate this prestigious institution.”

Redan had to admit, it was a cunning manoeuvre; buying favour in the public eye always paid dividends. He scratched at his scruffy neck. Very cunning… and the young one had almost been caught in the fire. Perhaps I should look into them too…

A reporter prattled over the brindle-coloured visage of Champion Oryn being wheeled out of an ambulance, catching his eye. The man was in a much poorer state than when he’d seen him last, though far more interesting was his involvement. A direct link to the judiciary?

With a glance around the office, Redan unfolded the piece of paper he had kept in his top drawer; a witness statement written by the champion after the school fire. A friend of a friend had forwarded the document to him, burning a favour or two in the process. The contents were… complicated to say the least, but it was more what Oryn didn’t say that interested Redan. If I wanted to know more, I’d have to ask him myself.

A mug of tea came down on his desk, his colleague Errèl leaning over his shoulder—an easy feat given their disparate heights. The northerner had lived in Bendara longer than she had in Oromaad and had lost her lilted accent in place of the rugged kejdar tone. Still, she kept some of her Rotaniri heritage, braiding the grey fur of her head where it grew long, rather than cutting it off as was practical. Most Rotaniri were naturally greyish in colour, and it was a common slight to compare them with the predatory pyq. It had been her people who crossed Euwen’s Straight, overtaken the holy city of Caiyu, and much of the southern continent, including Bendara. The resentment had long outlasted the occupation, and though that was all ancient history, even the oldest wounds can sometimes bleed fresh.

“’Champion Oryn,’” she read aloud, glancing at the ongoing news report. “You’re not looking into that school stuff again are you?”

Redan muted the display, quickly folding the piece of paper over and secreting it in his satchel. “It’s healthy t’ keep an eye on the public interest,” he said.

“It’s tabloids,” Errèl said as she sat opposite him, turning his monitor so that she could also watch. “And there’s nothing healthy about what you do, man.” She gestured at it with her free paw. “This Brackwood stuff, you’ve got to let it go. We’ve got other pressing cases.” Loose papers, scraps of notes, tablets thrown to one side littered the shared desk, their piles of clutter often mingling.

“I’ll get to them too,” Redan murmured.

“Your heart’ll give out at this rate. You’ll be lucky to see your first grey hair.”

“I’ve got plenty of grey hairs,” he muttered. “Just not in a spot you wanna see.”

The woman snorted, taking a swig of her own drink as her eyes settled on the screen. Footage of people picking through the school’s blackened rubble cut to a pair of haggard radji being chased up the judiciary steps. One stumbled, the cameraman taking the opening to get a close-up. The woman was weeping, the man dead-eyed. An image of a very young radji, still covered in soot and burns was overlaid beside them, naming him. Shaming him.

“Can’t believe the boy’d do such a thing,” Errèl sighed, shaking her head. “How’d he get out to the forest anyhows?”

Redan grunted. That was the easy part. “Buses run down the main road and his parents are alltimers.”

“And what, they didn’t notice anything?”

Redan flicked the screen off, sick of it. He gestured pointedly to his filing rotarum. The vertical cylinder was as tall and broad as his chest, each set of papers wound snugly around a sprocket within. “How many times have we heard that before?” he sniffed rhetorically. He spun the crank on it for good measure, listening to the files slide through its mechanisms. “’Oh officer, I didn’t see nothin’.’ How many cases, hm? That’s right, dozens. Probably hundreds.”

Errèl thought for a moment. “I recon’ I’d know if my kid were a deviant,” she said. Redan took a sip from his mug, the rotarum clattering as it went on spinning. If the foreigner saw the look on his face she must have thought his drink tasted bitter. “What happened to the kid anyway?” she asked.

“Taken in by the CSC.”

Errèl smacked her lips. “Guy’ll be lucky not to wind up in the panopticon.”

Redan glanced at her over his mug. “He’s just a kid. He won’t deserve that.” It was a meagre objection, and he knew it. He’d seen better people imprisoned for far less.

“You think the justiciars see it that way?” Errèl huffed. “He started two fires; one in a school.”

“He burned himself half as bad as I hear it,” Redan murmured. At that moment his comm chimed at him, an automated reminder. He picked it up, miming reading a message. “Shit, man. I’ve gotta go,” he groaned.

“Everything alright?” she asked.

Redan threw his satchel over one shoulder. “Yeah, jus’ forgot about an appointment is all. Can you cover the end of the shift?”

“Yeah yeah, I got it,” she said easily, with a dismissive paw.

“You’re an absolute champion,” he said, quickly gulping down the last of his tea.

Errèl snorted. “Don’t say that. They’ve been screwing up lately.” Redan didn’t give that more than a grunt.

The judicial building was large and domelike from without; two rings of passages formed its construction making a careful network of sub-divisions and viewing chambers. The justiciars, important delegates, and the executive staff kept to the inner ring; a perfect circle, accessible only via the landing zone on the roof and secretive, carefully guarded passages hidden across the complex. The outer ring adjoined the main entrance chamber, encircling the rest of the judicial space. Here the public servants worked, and the public themselves came to plead their cases. Only the courts bridged the gap between the two, although the justiciars kept to a lofty height far out of reach when deliberating fates. It was a long walk out through the judicial halls, and the man wasn’t exactly in peak condition. He was going to be late, but he couldn’t have left earlier without arousing suspicion. The entrance hall was mostly empty as he puffed along, making his way past the ostentatious tapestries and carvings. A towering pair of androgenous centurions stood by the front doors, silently watching the comers and goers. Redan liked to imagine he was too short for them to notice him passing; everyone looks down on the little guy if they even see him at all.

The clouds were clustering above the spires of Bendara in drab, dark shades, sapping some of the skyscraper’s lustre. Redan waddled down the long steps back to his car, a slick black craft sizeable enough to transport half a dozen or so. The door slid open as he approached, revealing the spacious interior; it was too flashy for his tastes, but it was a perk of the job. He quickly took his seat, inputting the Clinic of Social Control as his destination. As the craft sprung into life, lifting up into the air with firm, pre-programmed authority, Redan let his mind fall back onto that old case. The big one, the one that got away.

That bloody inquest…

The attorney had worked too many cases not to be suspicious of the whole thing. For the judiciary to just… drop an inquest? That never happened. Stand in the right place long enough and something special always shows up, and the Brackwood…

Redan, like most people, had never visited. The woods were wild and overgrown, no one about for hectares around… the whole idea gave him the creeps. Then there was that family. Decent people it seemed, but total oddballs. Most people knew them by reputation alone as ‘them weird folk of the woods.’ Hiding something too; people just don’t run away from their lives like that.

Teraka hadn’t been much better, keeping all his secrets close and then slipping into the night before he could tell them. But he’d had such… conviction. Redan wanted to believe him, but the pieces weren’t coming together. Something was missing.

It all felt connected: that strange family and their secrets, large predators on the loose in ancient, creepy woods, kids being swept away for contrived mental conditions, mourning parents vanishing almost without a trace?

It was like a bad joke, and he didn’t get the punchline.

And lurking at the heart of the matter was Juran. Redan had not sat on his laurels this whole time, he had quietly been filing away all that he could on Bendara’s Head Extermination Officer.

The man himself was something of a ghost, albeit a very tall one. Census records showed he was born to a modest family on the outskirts of Caiyu, but government dispensation shortly thereafter implies that his mother raised him alone. It seemed that at first he studied astronomy in college but exchanged his discipline for xenoanthropology. When he graduated he quickly found work in an upcoming colony outpost, left for deep space, and promptly dropped off the map. Then some nine years later he was hired as a junior officer in the Extermination Office, and within three short years he’s running the place.

Funny thing was that under his watch the division had become almost a figurative position. When it came down to it, there really were not all that many pests left to kill. Monitors were an endangered species, deku were killed off by baiting rubbish tips with poisons, and public opinion on vexise had shifted rapidly from ‘tiny menaces’ to ‘mild pets’ thanks to some high profile talk show host handing a bunch out to celebrities. A lot of the officers actually dealt with the upwelling stink that plagued the areas prone to runoff along the Tears. If not that, then working to improve conditions for farming folk by developing new, less destructive pesticides. Extermination by fire as a method was becoming more and more a relic of the past. Juran, it seemed, was too good at his job.

But where one would expect his office to be next in line for the proverbial expense cutting block, it still received an abundance of funding for a bunch of paper pushers.

The fires just… didn’t fit neatly with what he knew. This was something new, he decided. Worth reaching out with. He pulled out the tablet he stored beneath the seat of his hovercar specifically for this purpose, inputting the passkey.

//Session started [CLSD50836.2; *********.*]

//Users: (R);(*)

R{ROOK to knight four.}

The message would take some time to deliver depending on just wherever its target was, so Redan pulled out Champion Oryn’s statement again; the myriad creases and folds telling how often he’d sought some deeper meaning in its content. Roklin and his family would take most of the heat for the fire, but this read like an admission of guilt. When the public saw this he’d be stripped of his title and the man would never work again. Monsters people feared, but those that helped them they despised.

Redan had kept Aletra’s condition out of the public eye for just that reason; he could not work in the court of public opinion. It would not do his reputation any good if people knew about her. That shouldn’t matter, came the old voice. Is your reputation truly worth less than her? No… he would burn it all in a day to save her. But for now, she needed treatment, and he needed to pay for that treatment, and for him to keep a job… Goddess above it stung, that a man should have to hide his daughter of all things.

Redan’s mood was as grim as the world outside as the car settled down into the CSC parking garage. He hated this place, another grey monolith. It stunk of neglect and disinfectant.

Tyranora del Elanae met him in the nondescript lobby, waiting primly by the elevator. The physician-psychologist always held an aura of sharpness to her, in intellect, poise, and wit. Most graciously she saw fit not to inflict the latter on him at this moment, summoning the elevator as soon as she saw him.

“They’re bringing her in now,” Tyra said in her rich accent, saving him any pretence of a greeting.

Redan scowled. “I told you I needed to be here when it started.”

“I delayed as long as I could; the nurses have families to go home to too.”

Many doubtless did, but Redan did not give one jolly fuck after what they put Aly through. “Would we be able to get an observation day when this is over?” he asked as they shuffled into the elevator.

Tyra dialled in her pass, keying in the floor. “The waiting list isn’t getting any shorter I’m afraid,” she rasped as they were lifted deeper into the clinic’s interior.

“I just want– need, I just need to get her out of here, Tyra. You’ve seen that she’s…” The clinicians had said that sometimes patients could become stifled.

Tyranora sighed gently. “The treatment is proving more taxing than I’d hoped,” she said, rubbing her eyes. “But Aletra is a strong girl. She’ll pull through.”

Redan grunted down at the floor. His whole life felt like it was in a holding pattern, living the same tedious day and wretched night. That Aletra had to suffer so… No. The man pulled himself back from that particular abyss; he had been down into that dark place too many times before. Tyra was doing her best, he knew that. He would do the work to get his daughter out, to get them back to that happy life. He would.

Redan shifted mental tracks, partly to distract himself, partly out of self-destructive curiosity. Tyra would know things. He would apply the oldest economic art: the haggle. The best way to win a haggle he had found was for your trading partner to not realise the value of what they had. If they did not realise you were haggling at all, all the better.

The elevator arrived on their desired floor, Tyra leading the way to the first checkpoint. “Could I ask a favour?” Redan asked as they walked. The woman shot him a curious look. First, bid outrageously high. “You’re holding that Roklin kid right now, right? I’d like to speak to him, see how he is.”

Tyra visibly restrained herself from rolling her eyes. “I don’t think that’s likely,” she replied. “He’s in no fit state to see anyone, and I’m still finishing paperwork from your stunt with Yotun.” They were stopped at a wide, reinforced door that sealed off the passageway. Don’t give the game away, Redan thought as they were both recorded in the log before being waved through.

He waited until they were out of earshot before continuing his gambit. “I’m not trying to represent him, I just want to understand the– the situation that makes a kid like that, find out why he’d…” He trailed off with a perfectly practiced wheeze. Emotional manipulation was not his favourite tool, but boy was it effective.

“You can’t save all of them, Redan. I learnt that a long time ago. I’m sorry.” Tyra flicked at her clipboard. “If you’d like, I could quietly ask if that champion prick would see you. I hear he was in recovery.”

Just what he was hoping for, but he hid it behind a thoughtful look. “Hm. You think he’d see me after that ‘stunt’ I pulled?” They turned onto the treatment ward, coloured an offset russet-red.

“From what I hear he’s feeling quite pensive,” Tyra murmured.

Redan nodded mildly, feeling rather pleased with himself. If the man was feeling talkative, that’s dandy. He was about to insist that she didn’t have to go to such a great effort, when, with a tremendous sinking feeling, he realised where he was standing. He was outside her room again. He could see his little girl, his little Aly, in her hospital bed through the tiny square window in the door. His moment of self-congratulation was quickly screwed up, tossed into the wastebasket, and forgotten.

“Th-thanks,” he murmured hoarsely to Tyra, not even looking at her as he pushed through the door.

“Of course,” she whispered as it swung shut behind him.

Redan stopped at the foot of the bed, the girl’s fiery long curls encircling her head. The bed was wedged into the corner of the room, but that gave her a wide window with a good view of the world outside. She looked snug and peaceful if you ignored her disquieted expression, the tube running into her wrist, and the nurse examining a screen in the other corner.

The girl’s eyes flittered open. “Daddy?” she asked softly.

He fell into the chair at her bedside, clasping her little paw in his. “Hello luv,” he said with the secret, real smile he kept just for her. “How’re you feeling?”

“I’m tired,” she murmured groggily, rubbing at her face. “Is it sleeping time again?” They had already given her the primer, a mild sedative before the main dose. Redan could not say yes, so he nodded instead. Aly’s lower lip wobbled, but she did not cry. She always fought not to cry. She was so, so much braver than he was.

Aletra looked dimly around the room. “Where’s Mummy?”

Redan swallowed the lump in his throat; he’d been afraid of this. The medications were addling her, he knew, but it was more than that. The girl was old enough to understand, but perhaps on some level she did not want to.

“Mummy’s gone away for a little while,” he told her. “She’s really sorry she can’t be here.”

Aly made a weak little despairing sound that filled him with overwhelming shame. It hurt more than all the words her mother had left him with. Her eyes lingered on the window for a long moment, the hovercars and starships rising through the overcast sky.

“I… don’t want to go under,” she whispered. “I don’t want it Daddy.”

“I’m sorry sweetheart,” he managed. “Daddy don’t want you to either. B-but this way you don’t hurt yourself while you’re hyper. A-And it gives the nice doctors time to help. You just get to rest for a little while, okay?”

She shook her head weakly. “No… no it’s not like that.”

“Then… what’s it like luv?”

“It’s like… I’m in here–” she gestured toward her little head with a limp paw, “–but I can’t wake up. I… hear things, and I know I’m sleeping, but… but I can’t wake up.”

A second nurse entered the room, quietly conferring with the other. Redan could not shake the feeling that this was all wrong, and all his fault.

“W-well then,” he sniffled, squeezing her paw. “Daddy promises he’ll wait right here for you. He’ll come back here every day after work, a-and he’ll read you some stories, okay?” She sniffled at him.

“Lightspeed Lal?” Her voice was so small and meek, yet it ground something deep in Redan’s chest.

“The picture ones?” he nodded. “Y-yeah, that sounds great.”

“Okay,” she whispered. “I love you’s Daddy.”

He kissed her forehead. “I love you too. More than anything.”

The nurses were readying syringes.

“Daddy?” Aly asked.

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“You’ll be here when I wake up?”

He nodded fervently. “Of course.”

“…will Mummy?” The nurses moved in around them.

“I…” Redan felt like he was swallowing a brick. “She’ll be here. I promise.”

~*~

Redan awoke with an ache in his chest and a crook in his neck. He had fallen asleep by the bed, his arm half-draped over the railing, still grasping Aletra’s paw. Outside the dawn was stretching a mild orange light across the horizon; he would be late to work. Summer rains pattered against the window, the water’s tracks casting odd shadows across the room. The father leaned over, pushing one tawny lock of hair back off her sunlit face. It made her look feral, the way she constantly tucked her long golden curls behind her ears. She would be much tidier without them, but Aletra had bitten the last clinician who had tried to give her a haircut. It should not have filled him with quite so much pride, but Redan still chuckled at the memory.

“I’ve got to go now, sweetie,” he told her sleeping form. “Promise you won’t be good.” He kissed her forehead and left.

A nurse stopped him on the way out, telling him that, ‘His friend in hospital would be able to see him.’ He thanked them, quietly remarking on how fast Tyra could work, but his heart wasn’t in it. Redan’s legs carried his squat form back to his car of their own accord. He sat in the driver’s seat for several minutes. What was he to do? He wouldn’t get another chance to talk to Oryn, not in private.

I don’t have time for any of that, he chastised himself. Aly needs me. He needed to get back to work, back to the millstone. He input the judiciary’s heading, but his paw hovered over the launch control. Sighing, he reached into his satchel and retrieved his comm. He put it to one ear and pressed record.

“Hey Wyla,” he grunted, his eyes drifting up to the heavens. “I-I know you needed some space. I hope you’ve got plenty of it up there.” He rubbed his face with a paw. “That came out worse than I meant it. Look,” he sighed, ”Aly went under again today. She was asking for her mummy. I… I think it’d do her good to see us both… to see you again. I know it’s a lot to ask, but… but maybe you could see if there’s a way… if-if you could make it…” He trailed off, closing his eyes. He forced a smile none of them could see. “She– she looks so much like you, lucky girl. Good thing she doesn’t take after her dumb dad. I miss you luv. Come home soon.”

Redan hit send, then folded the comm in one paw. Slumping, he pressed the closed fist against his forehead. He ought to go back to work, get through the day. Errèl was right, he had other priorities, like looking after Aletra. But… he probably would not get another chance at Oryn, that Tyra had been so good to give him. The man startled when the device in his paw chimed, answering at once.

“H-hello?” he said shakily, sitting up.

“Hey man, where are you?” Errèl’s voice. “You’ve missed this morning’s seminary, and we’ve got that council with Vala before lunch.” Shit, was that today?

Redan hunched over the dash, wanting to go back to his daughter—or rather to then take her back home where they could bake and draw and play. He sat up again. “Oh, sorry man I had a hard night last night.”

“You drinking again?” came Errèl’s curt response.

“No, ‘course not!” he huffed, more heated than he meant. “Sorry,” he murmured into the quiet line, ”just… just not feeling too good. Migraines.” Redan licked his lips, making up his mind. Never hurts to have an alibi. “I tell you what, I’m uh, actually on the way to the Atbrak now—” the craft chimed in acknowledgement as he palmed the command into the hovercars autopilot, “—I’ll get something for my head, and then work from home. I’ll pick up all those testaments we’ve been puttin’ off.”

“R-really man? You’d be up all night doing that by yourself.”

Redan grit his teeth. “Well, I-I’ll make a start. We need to have them sealed by the end of the week anyway.”

“Shit, you’re right,” she groaned. “Okay, alright. Do what you can, but don’t beat yourself up man. You need a break.”

“Yeah, right. I’ll take one when you do.” Redan shut the line and hit launch, itching to satiate his curiosity. He reached below his chair and checked the encrypted tablet. No new messages… he must be really far out of system. Best to keep it close by for now, he decided, putting it into his satchel.

It was a short flight over to Atbrak Hospital and Infirmary, a squat seeming, barrel-shaped structure on the outer rim of the city’s upper district. The building was actually much taller than most of the other skyscrapers in the city but had been sunken through the upper districts support until it reached ground level, giving access to the lower wards. In most places of the overcity you hardly knew that the undercroft even existed, forgetting that those down below hardly saw the sun. The Atbrak bridged the gap, standing on solid ground.

The surrounding section of the upper level was permitted a small patch of greenery so long as it did not attempt to escape its bounds, as well as a nice view of the bay. Redan would have liked to have taken a moment to appreciate the distant ships riding the rolling waves, but the rain was picking up its pace as the car parked itself and the man waddled as fast as he could to escape the damp.

He was greeted within by an automated puff of sterile spray in the antechamber that simultaneously filled his lungs with something repulsively flowery and blow dried his fur into a frizz. He trotted over to the front desk, telling them he was looking for the champion. The nurse there enquired within for a moment but returned with a nod and directed Redan to an elevator and the ninth floor. There were no other patients on that ward, so it was trivially easy to find his way from there. Redan was mildly surprised that he encountered no resistance, no police or officials monitoring entrance and exit. Perhaps they didn’t think their patient a flight risk.

Champion Oryn had been placed in a modest, unassuming room, with some comfortable chairs, books to read, and a view of the rolling sea beyond that, on a prettier day, would have been quite pleasant. Redan silently noted that the display had been disconnected from its power—perhaps he didn’t want to watch the news. Instead, Oryn was propped up in bed, his pen scratching away at his journal. He looked up as Redan entered.

“My, my,” the bedridden man wheezed tightly, “an ‘old friend’ is here to see me, hm? I didn’t think Tyra had a sense of humour.”

“Champion,” he said with a slight bow of the head, settling for politeness given their last meeting. “Thanks for agreeing to see me.”

“Well, I’m not exactly going anywhere right now. I could do with some entertainment. So, Redan,” he spread his paws, “why’re you here?”

Redan teetered at the threshold for a moment. “Well… I wanted to talk to you about the fire.”

Oryn didn’t look surprised, just gazed emptily out of the window. “I’ve given a statement,” he sighed.

“I know. I read it. That’s why I’m here.” For a brief moment he thought Oryn looked bemused, or perhaps he had just imagined it. The champion gestured to a chair, Redan sitting. “How’re you feeling?” he began casually, pulling out a notebook and pen.

The champion shrugged. “Second degree burns, a pair of broken ribs, and a rather nasty cough. All in all, not bad.” He tilted his head at him. “I take it Tyra’s letting you take Roklin’s case?”

“No,” he said. “No, I wanted to talk about you.” Oryn steepled his claws, flicking his thumbs up in that ‘get-on-with-it’ gesture. “Why were you assigned to the school?” Redan asked. “I understand they already have a champion posted there.”

Oryn shook his head, perhaps a little frustrated. “I can’t comment on the motivations of the judiciary, or the conditions under which I was contracted.”

“This isn’t on the record. Surely you can talk in broad terms.”

“If you’re not here in an official capacity, then why’re you asking questions?” Oryn tugged at the tufted point of fur on his chin. “What’re you getting out of this?”

Redan smacked his lips for a moment, playing the bumbling everyman. “Well, y’know… you saw the end of the roht incident, and then the Brackwood fire, and were involved in this latest bout…” He shrugged. “Lot’s been happenin’ around that school lately, and… well I want an expert opinion.”

Oryn laughed at him. “You want my perspective? I seem to recall a pugnacious little man who saw fit to undercut my duties to a vulnerable patient?”

The pugnacious little man in question allowed himself a mild chuckle. “Look,” he said, “we’ve not seen eye-to-eye before, but I don’t doubt you’re doing what you think’s best. In fact, I do want your perspective, precisely because it won’t gel with my own.”

The man frowned at his bedsheets for a moment. “What do you know about Tyra?”

Redan clicked his pen. “Tyra? Sh-she’s a practiced physician, a hardworking woman, who… who cares deeply about her patients. She’s a foreigner yes, but… kind. Generous.”

“All of this’s true,” he said with a swish of his paw. “But did you know that Tyra was once a patient of such a clinic?”

Redan blinked; he hadn’t expected that. Oryn chuckled at his expression. “She wears it well, hm? That woman is more than she seems my friend. She fought very hard to turn her life around and when she did? She ran right back to those who needed her most. Marvellous woman. So, when she told me to leave the clinic, I left. I respected her judgement.” The champion regarded him with narrow eyes. “You, you I don’t know. Why should I let you judge me, hm? Tyra holds for you some modicum of affection. Why?”

“I’m not here to–”

“You want honesty, yes? You want me to answer all your questions? Answer mine. Why does she trust you? Why did you care so much about Yotun?”

Redan sat back in his chair. He felt cornered. A part of him wanted to walk out, but then he might’ve well stayed home. How much was his curiosity really worth? This man knew things, things he needed to know. The disguise wouldn’t work here. He could tell him some of the truth, just a little.

“Tyra…” Redan closed his eyes, swallowing the easy way out. “Tyra looks after my daughter. At the clinic. She’s… she’s got difficulties.”

“Ahh!” Oryn’s face lit up. “Ah, of course! So, you are a simple man after all, Redan.” Disgusted, the father sneered, snatching up his satchel and moving to leave. Oryn tutted quickly. “Oh, I mean no offense. Simple men are good, honest. There are too few in this world.” Redan glared back at him, feeling even smaller than he was. Worse than that, Oryn could see it. “It must be hard, yes? To see her in there?”

“O’course!” Redan snapped.

Oryn raised a paw as his smile slipped away, a tender calm replacing it. “I understand. I forswear my bones if I tell another soul.” Oryn gestured to the chair. “Please, sit.” Redan ground his jaw, feeling like he’d miscalculated terribly. But bones were sacrosanct; the priest had sworn on his soul.

He sat.

The champion stroked his chin for a moment, thinking. “Students from the school had been involved in a nasty predator attack, one that… that the faculty had somehow allowed to happen. The judiciary thought that an outsider’s perspective would be useful, in particular with Yotun.”

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

Redan took a sigh, falling into the conversation. “You spent some time with him in Caiyu, right?”

The champion nodded. “The boy seemed to be recovering,” he said hoarsely. ”His family were all getting on much better too. They’re hardworking people, never really made the time for themselves. That trip seemed to give them all… catharsis? Relief? It was good for them. But, of course, that all unravelled once we were back at school. He– ahHK Hck! Hck!” The man was cut off by a pronounced coughing fit, his face flushing purple as he thumped his chest. It was a raking, painful sound. Oryn pointed to a jug of water and some glasses resting on the nearby table, Redan quickly pouring him a cup.

“Should I get the nurse?” he asked as Oryn drank.

“I’m fine,” the man coughed after a moment. “Where was I?”

Redan settled back into his seat. “The first day Yotun came back.”

“Yes,” Oryn grunted, shifting awkwardly in his bed as he set the glass down again. “The naurets had arrived a month or so earlier. They were celebrities. The younger one, Irimya, had garnered a small group of followers, and Roklin was one of them. He’d taken a liking to her.”

The naurets again. Redan leaned forward. “What kind of liking?”

“The kind you think, although he’s too young to recognise it. I think she provided stability after what’d happened to Callio and the breakdown of his old friend group.” The champion steepled his paws again, using one thumb to scratch at the corner of his lip. “I gather… gather that the nauret was curious about the new arrival—Yotun that is. Rylett had greeted him rather enthusiastically, I recall. A few members of the group started telling the girl whispers of the roht incident, which led to discussion of the Brackwood, of Imdi’s family and what they do. So, when that morning’s recess came around she sought them out, and so the group followed–”

“And they found them with the kitten,” Redan concluded. That story had not escaped his notice.

Oryn rolled his eyes. “Imdi wanted to show it off to his friends. Innocent. Foolhardy. There was a fight, a minor stampede. Of course, it didn’t click then that’d been when Roklin snatched the book.”

He’s getting ahead of himself. “Fights in schoolyards aren’t exactly rare,” Redan probed.

“Well, on the face of it, no. But… Imdi had brought a predator onto school grounds. There was little harm done, and on the books the correct disciplinary action was taken. But there was… discord between the staff about how to proceed.”

“Is that when you pushed for Yotun to be sectioned?”

Oryn grimaced. “I’ve always misliked that term. It sounds like they’re vivisected and put under a microscope. No… no I wanted Yotun to be treated. Helped by specialists.” Redan could understand both halves of that sentiment at least. Oryn poured himself another glass of water and took a gulp before continuing. “In any case, we decided to keep a close eye on him, give him another chance. We didn’t have to wait long.”

“The Brackwood fire?” Redan asked.

The other man nodded. “Yotun’s notebook was found at the scene. Some images were passed through the judiciary to me.” Oryn grimaced. “The book was filled with drawings, sketches. Predators and monsters. Mutilations. At that point my duty became obvious, the boy needed treatment. He was clearly suffering. And… well. You know how all of that went.”

Redan twiddled his pen for a moment. He had taken a tremendous amount of satisfaction in getting Yotun out of the CSC, against this man’s wishes. At the time it’d even felt like justice. But now, looking at the burnt champion, he had to wonder if he too really was trying to help the boy in his own way.

The attorney cleared his throat. “So… when’d you start to suspect Roklin.”

“We needed some cleaning supplies leading up to the festival, went looking in the lower dorms’ storage. I found this pack dunked in a bucket of water and hidden beneath a box in the corner. The oil was leaching out of it, the whole thing reeked.” Kept evidence to himself, Redan jotted down. That had been a mistake.

“And you recognised it?”

“No,” the man chuckled wryly. “His mother had sewn his name into the hem.”

Redan set down his pen, blinking. “You’re joking…”

“I wish I was. He’s just a bloody kid.” Oryn ground his jaw. “A quick search of the bus routes confirmed he could have made it there and back that night, and it all fell into place. His animosity to Imdi and Yotun, his anger at the forest and its predators for taking his friends away. I… I should have known something was amiss with that fight in the yard, how quiet Roklin had been that day, but I didn’t know him then. Didn’t think…” He sighed. “He’d nicked a canister of engine fuel from his dad’s work—he’s a mechanic or something—and stuffed it in his pack. Whole thing blew up in his face when he tried to light it, and then you have a forest fire.”

Redan hid in writing a few notes for a moment, mulling the words over. It made sense from a means and opportunity perspective, but he was still unsure why a young boy would do such a thing. “In your statement, you said that Roklin must’ve left Yotun’s notebook at the scene. What for? To discredit him?”

Oryn gestured levelly. “Roklin picked up the notebook during the fight. He’d opened it, seen what Yotun had drawn and… well. I guess he had the same reaction I did. He didn’t see a wounded young man. He saw a deviant. A monster.”

“And we burn monsters,” Redan grunted. “Why didn’t you report the boy? You knew what he’d done, and more than that withheld evidence! Doesn’t that make you culpable?”

“Of course,” Oryn murmured, looking out at the rain pattering against the window. “Even if the judiciary takes no action against me, the Protectorate will. The Faith doesn’t tolerate failures like this.”

“So…” Redan pressed. “Why didn’t you report him? I mean, you had a duty to it, didn’t you? An’ you must’ve suspected that he could’ve hurt someone else?”

“Well, with the benefit of hindsight. But…” The champion’s lip curled, a flash of satisfaction on his face. “I suppose it’s because of you, Redan. Because of you.”

“Me?” Redan frowned, caught a little off guard.

Oryn rubbed his paws on the bedding for a moment, before swinging his legs over the side. Redan winced at the ragged mess of raw tissue exposed on his back, bruised a putrid purple-black spotted here and there with yellow. It looked revolting.

“Should you be walking?” Redan murmured, instinctively moving to offer him a paw. The champion ignored him, instead unlatching and sitting with a wince by the window. Outside the rain thundered, the sound echoing in the chamber. Oryn beckoned to Redan and the attorney begrudgingly scooted his chair over.

“When Yotun was arrested,” Oryn hushed, Redan straining to hear, “I thought his time in the facility would serve him well. He could be monitored, his needs be seen to. He could focus on getting better. And at first I was hopeful. Tyra said he was responding to the treatment, he was cooperative. But he became more agitated, not less, and you all fought me so hard to get him out.” The man pinched at his lower lip for a moment. “The Protectorate’s whole mandate is to guard our people, protect the defenceless. We aren’t justiciars or– or Kay-ut herself, we don’t stand in judgement. Yet here I was. Casting blame. Yotun is… a damaged young man by all measures. But he’s still brave if timorous, creative if disturbed. Do we not all carry such wickedness? Should he not deserve our protection? I looked around that building at… at all those poor people, and I began to wonder if… if maybe I was judging them too harshly. Like I had with Yotun. I wondered…”

The champion sighed, his breath rattling as if ash remained in his lungs. “I wondered if we were punishing the very people we failed to help.”

Redan found himself rapt, not quite believing what he was hearing. It was one thing to think these things, another to hear someone else—a champion no less—say them. Oryn shrugged. “So, when… when I found Roklin like that I thought a judicial trial, sectioning—,” he bit around the word, “—wouldn’t do no good. So, I tried to reason with him. Help him myself. Walk him back from this dark path he’d put himself on. I took the bag and kept it in my locker. I tried to get him to talk to me. He was resistant. Kept insisting he hadn’t done it. In the end… I pushed him too far. He must’ve panicked, and decided the only way out was to destroy evidence.” The champion tutted behind his teeth, simmering in a quiet anger. “What a fool I was.”

Redan rubbed at his face. He again considered the bluntness, the openness of the champion’s statement. An epiphany found him.

“Your statement’s a confession,” he whispered intently. “Shit… You’re… you’re trying to take the fall for Roklin!”

Oryn chuckled mildly. “I appreciate your faith in me, but Roklin is much too guilty for that. No, the judiciary will see that he’s locked away someplace dark.”

“Then why play the martyr?”

“I failed Roklin, Redan; make no mistake, I am culpable. This situation is my fault, but–” he leaned closer, “–why was he so vulnerable to begin with? Why was Yotun?” Oryn shook his head ruefully. “There’s more to this than gross negligence. Something’s very wrong here, with us. There are so many other people like those boys, like the people at the CNC, who we’ve failed, and are trapped in a system that… that’s not helping them.”

The storm began to slow outside, and the day was starting to march ahead. He still needed to pick up the testaments on the way home. Redan’s paws folded up his things and his mouth bid goodbyes as his mind worked. This didn’t feel like part of a conspiracy, just a lonely, angry boy with no one to turn to, and a poor priest with a crisis of conscience. The only connection to the judiciary was this man here. The champion was right about one thing: the judiciary was made to cast judgement. So why had they withheld it in the Brackwood case? Redan stopped, then turned quickly back to the window.

“Oryn…” he whispered, leaning close, the rain pattering gently. “When the judiciary brought you in to consult, did you speak with the justiciars directly?”

The man pursed his lips, nodding down at the carpet. “Yes. They made a private audience. It was a grim affair; the death of the girl, that predator.”

“And what was your read of them?”

He shrugged. “They were officials. They wanted discretion and they wanted results.”

“Yes but… what was their mood? How did they feel to you?”

“How was their mood?” The ghost of a laugh played across Oryn’s lips. “Like children, caught out of bed.”

~*~

Who benefits? That was always the first question to ask.

Interstellar trade was… a messy business. Redan avoided it where possible, but certain economic principles were universal, regardless of how alien your culture. People like stuff—an economist would call them goods, possessions, knick-knacks, but in essence, stuff. For a functional economic transaction, you needed a currency that was both accessible and had values we all agree upon, i.e., the thing that I am trading with has to be of an equal worth to the thing that I trade for.

The problem was that different cultures have different sensibilities on what was or was not valuable. For example, tūca was a commonplace ornamental plant and mild dressing in radji society. For an iridian it was indigestible and therefore worthless to most of its populace. For auora it was poisonous, and as a result a banned substance. For the v’rstatin however, it was a potent aphrodisiac, and worth its weight in… something shiny, whatever they were willing to trade. Knowing your buyer, then, is most of the deal, but what do you do if the target demographic lives on the other side of the galaxy? What if the cost of export is beyond what is feasible for your demographic to purchase?

Then there is the problem of politics. Some species value homegrown goods, others fashionable imports. Some species were laxer on alien businesses, others inflicted heavy tariffs. A few were outright xenophobic.

It was like playing terroc, wrestling three men, doing long division, and shooting a pedestrian from a moving hovercar all at once. Suffice to say, it made his head ache.

So, the question any entrepreneurial capitalist creature like a nauret must ask themselves is: what do we have that you want, and what will we get for it? That was what Redan was trying to work out about these new arrivals to Bendara. What, exactly, did the Meredahn Consortium want to sell?

That, it turned out, was a rather difficult question to answer. Some enterprises focused on maximising the quality of their products, others mass producing garbage, but all of them, all of them, advertised their wares, goods, services, and stuff, like their lives depended on it. Meredahn did not advertise in radji spaces, at least not yet, claiming to still be negotiating with the Bendara Council. This was not unusual, but normally any prospective industry would be making public statements about their propositions or visiting important construction sites or touring the financial districts. Instead, the naurets were investing in charitable causes, particularly ones that benefitted the communities along the wharves whose foundations regularly succumbed to flooding. They had enrolled the junior in school, made a show of visiting festivities and social engagements, and, when that school had been half burnt to a crisp, they even offered to pay for its redevelopment.

As far as he could tell, it seemed like all they were trying to foster was goodwill. That in-and-of itself was suspicious, but all this speculation revealed nothing more than a desire to appease the Council and the community.

Redan rubbed at his face; this was beginning to feel like a dead end. The attorney stretched, looking around his daughter’s bedroom. To anyone else it was poorly decorated. During one of her episodes Aly had decided to repaint her walls, but only having her markers, attacked it with the brightest yellow pens she had. When those ran out, she went for the red ones, then blue, then settled for any she could find. He only knew something was up when she started stealing fresh markers from his office. The two of them had been repainting merrily when Wyla had come home. She had been less enthused. Drawings now littered the wall beside her empty bed, both on paper and the paint. The bed itself had been unslept in for too long now.

Shit, what was I even doing? Redan wondered. He looked over at the pile of testaments cluttering the child-sized table. Testaments were the records of every case put to the judiciary, hand typed onto paper and sealed within the building itself. Turns out a paper trail was more secure than a digital footprint in an age of cybercrime, and allowed the city to monitor who accessed them and when. He had managed to finish two so far. It really was going to take all night.

There was a buzz from the corner of the room where Redan had tossed his satchel. Stretching, Redan reached for his comm but found it inactive. The satchel buzzed again. He snatched out the tablet, unlocking it quickly. Text scrawled across the screen, the icon of a wheel whirring about.

//Session started [CLSD50836.2; *********.*]

//Users: (R);(T)

T{CHECK in 9 moves.}

Redan flicked through his mental notes, finding the correct response.

R{CHECKMATE in 12.}

{You’re a hard man to reach.}

T{Good. Better people than you have tried.}

{What have you found?}

Contact, at last. Redan went and checked the front door was locked, then closed the blinds. He shut the bedroom door for all the good it would do. He took a breath to steady himself.

R{Found nothing new, but there’s new events. Second fire, at the school. Involved the Brackwood kid, started by a classmate.}

The response came a few moments later.

T{Curious. Any connection?}

R{I don’t see it. Had the opportunity to talk to BISHOP. Priest’s got a saviour complex, trying to take the fall. The naurets were present but seem unconnected.}

{Can’t find any reason why they’re here though. Almost as though they don’t want to talk about their business.}

T{I’ve been looking into them out here as well. There’s some talk that their previous business venture imploded, overtaken by a rival house, and left to be picked over by the iridians.}

{They’re desperate.}

R{Exploitable?}

T{Perhaps.}

{The lack of open coverage is interesting. Sometimes the absence of a thing is the footprint.}

R{BISHOP thought that Roklin was enraptured by Irimya. Could she have influenced him on KING’s behalf?}

T{Implausible. KING is not fond of bold statements, nor repeating his mistakes. Never admitted it, but using children always bothered him. They’re too unpredictable, public opinion too volatile. He will be patient, wait for a new opening once the dust has settled.}

{No, I don’t think the aliens are involved, at least not directly. They could be middlemen. A shell to obfuscate the real trade.}

R{Trading what?}

T{Something valuable. Something that they have to keep hidden.}

R{BISHOP said something interesting. He said the justiciars seemed nervous or guilty to him, like they were hiding something.}

T{They are.}

Redan flexed his claws uneasily. His associate always withheld things from him, was always on guard. It made him nervous.

R{Yes, but what? Involved in what? Trading what?}

{I know so little about all of this, who you were. How can we work together if you don’t trust me?}

T{It’s safer this way.}

R{Safer for whom? You?}

T{For us both.}

{This is a dangerous game.}

R{One we both agreed to play together.}

{Why? Why not retire someplace nice?}

T{You know why.}

{If I were you, I’d focus on looking after the family you have left.}

R{What’s that supposed to mean?}

T{Your wife left for DSC 4. Her ship won’t be back for months.}

{You should get your daughter out of the CSC.}

It didn’t surprise Redan to learn that Teraka was keeping tabs on him, but it still fired him up.

R{This is about her. They deserve better, don’t they?}

There was a long pause, the icon whirling like water circling a drain.

T{They do.}

{I don’t know what KING is playing at beyond the forest. But he became cautious for a reason. The inquiry pulled out, and BISHOP was supplanted in its place. I suspect the answer is closer to home than you realise.}

“Closer to home…” he read aloud. His head was pounding; this man played games within games. The icon began to wheel again. Then the screen flashed white for a fraction of a second, Redan blinking at the sudden shock of light. The wheel stopped, then sprang on again. A sprawl of text arrived in the next moment.

T{This line’s been compromised. They are coming.}

{Find the three letters.}

Redan scrambled, typing as fast as he could.

R{Three letters? Sent by whom?}

T//~TERMINATE;44769.2

The screen winked out of existence as the log burned itself away, Redan finding his own gawping face reflected in the black mirror.

~*~

Redan turned his comm over and over again in his paws as he rode the elevator alone, the smooth metal surface worn warm and sweaty from his touch. He had set course to the clinic in a daze, Teraka’s final message swimming through his mind. Find the three letters. The man had risked precious moments to give him that. Find the three letters. What letters? Find them where?

Could it have been a false alarm? A power surge? Teraka had always been paranoid and desperate. He had sought Redan out before he left, offering a substantial sum, and soft talking him a spiel about conspiracy and justice. Bollocks—Redan could see he would only use him in a mad hunt for vengeance against the man who’d taken his daughter away.

Of course, to do that he would have to murder every mirror in the world.

Goddess this was stupid! Redan had refused the money but agreed to aid him. He thought he was clever enough to outmanoeuvre Teraka, but he never should have trusted him! He probably trashed his own home in a hairbrained attempt to misdirect investigation on the nature of his disappearance, then darted off into space to chase a ghost.

What sucked was that the maniac was probably right! There was something afoot here, something terribly wrong, but now Redan gone along with him and left his butt out in the wind. And he’d done it all for what? His own fucking curiosity? His machismo for justice?

Fuck fuck fuck fuck, fuck fuck fuck! Calm down! Anyone interceding would have lost connection as well, they had nothing. They’d need both devices and their passkeys to have a hope of recovering anything, and he’d tossed the tablet into The Tears the first chance he’d got. It was lost, no one knew anything! No one knew a thing!

…If I were you, I’d look after the family you have left…

The doors opened with a chime, making him jump.

Aletra was still abed, lost in her graceful sleep. A tube had been fitted directly into her gut, feeding her directly. It made the father’s own stomach turn. He squeezed her paw. She didn’t move. With a ragged sigh he tossed his satchel into the chair and stood by the window. He looked out at the drab clouded sky, hoping for a deep-space trawler to spear through the cover and let in some sunlight, some semblance of normality. He ran his thumb over the comm again. He dialled without looking.

“H-hey luv,” he cooed into it, “it’s me again. I guess my first message is still on its way—hell you’ll probably get both of these at once when you ping the next relay!” He laughed awkwardly, all show. His breath fogged the window. “Uh… Aly’s under now. It… it was a rough one. I… um… I don’t think I can keep doing this. Keep… doing this to her. I…” He swallowed. “I think in another few months I’ll have enough to… to settle up somewhere else. Someplace quiet, away from the city. I can start a business. Maybe baking… I dunno.” He put his paw against the glass, against the grey. “We can… make the time. Like we always talked about. Of course, Aly’ll be like a deku at play, we’ll have to keep a good eye on her, but–” he smiled at the girl’s sleeping reflection, “–but she deserves it, don’t you think? Look, I know why you left. I… I know that… that you think…” Redan pulled the comm from his face, biting at the back of his paw. The things she’d said, those angry final words, choking him. He cleared his throat. “…but I can’t believe that you don’t love her,” he coughed through tight teeth. “Cause she still loves you, luv! An– an’ there’ll be a seat at our table for yer’, alright?”

Someone knocked on the door’s window, Redan looking over to see Tyranora standing without. He hid his face, waving her in. “That’s them now,” he murmured. “Please Wyla… for her.”

The attorney clicked shut the device, taking a shaky breath to steady himself. Tyra waited patiently.

“Thanks,” he grunted. “For… for helping with Oryn.”

He heard her take a careful step around the bed, checking the live display of Aletra’s condition. “I trust your conversation proved fruitful?” she murmured.

Redan donned a smile like a weathered coat before he looked at her. “I… I think so, yes.”

“Good.” Tyra gave him so soft a look, it passed right through his disguise. “Next time, just tell me what you want,” she said. Redan glanced away sheepishly, allowing himself to look meek. Was he still pretending? Play the jester long enough and you’re all the world’s fool. He had underestimated her, Redan realised, considering what Oryn had said.

He slumped into the chair, rubbing at his face.

“How many more?” he said with a weak gesture toward the sleeping child.

The psychologist gave a slight shrug. “I’m sorry, I can’t predict that Redan.”

“But she is getting better, right?”

Tyra sat in the chair opposite. “Her periods of hypomania seem to occur only every four or five months now,” she said evenly. “That’s a good sign. It’s possible that we may see a total remission of her condition, or she may need regular treatment for the rest of her life.”

“That’s not livin’,” he scowled. “She… I-I should be lying awake at night with worry about how she’s doin’ at school, o-or if she’s making good friends or bad ones, not if she’s gonna spend the rest of her days in that bloody bed!”

“Redan,” Tyra said patiently, leaning forward, “she will have a full life, I’d stake my bones on it. Aletra takes strength from you, you know?” He looked away from her, the words too close to the mark. None of them knew how weak he really was, how hard it was to fight like this… Tyranora snuck her head into his eyeline so that he had to meet her gaze. “She will get out of here. It happens. Not as often as I’d like, but much much more than it did. I… I hope that someday we strike some kind of balance. If she only has to come in for a week a year that’d be a victory!”

“She seems… duller every time,” he murmured. “I worry about what it’s doin’ to her.”

Tyra looked away, the slightest hint of a scowl on her face. “It can happen,” she sighed. “It’s a difficult treatment. We always knew there’d be complications, but we’ll deal with them.”

Redan swallowed hard. “She really didn’t want to go under this time. Like she was more scared than normal. She… she said something strange. She said that– that it don’t feel like sleeping, that she was awake up here—” he tapped the side of his head as she had tried to do, “—but that she can’t wake herself up. You… you don’t suppose…” He looked at Tyra, hoping, pleading that his eyes would ask the question for him.

She looked toward the bed. Perhaps he imagined it, but there was a moment when the proud woman fell away, and something about her posture felt familiar. Daughterly. The doctor looked back at him. “…I’ll go over her records and see if we can pull back her dosage a little. Maybe reach out to a few specialists.”

“And after–” he began.

“After comes later,” she cut in softly. “Do what you can for now.”

Tyra left him alone with Aly. Redan rubbed at his heavy eyelids; he’d hardly slept recently. He still hadn’t finished the testaments, but he was tired. He’d stay the night again and finish and drop them off tomorrow. Tyra was a good woman, he decided. That she should have to keep records on little girls… Redan leant over her bed and gently pulled Aletra’s mane about, made a mess of it just as she liked.

Records…

The judiciary kept their testaments, transcripts, and all other official records sealed within the bowels of the building. The idea had always tempted him, and if he was thinking about getting away anyway… Of course, they kept a close eye on who came and went and that had always discouraged him from searching before, but perhaps, if he made the right play…

No!

Redan caught his line of reasoning and wrestled it back to the ground. No. No more. He was done with this, this foolish investigation. He didn’t owe Teraka a thing! This was where he needed to be, by her side, working to get her out of here.

But what about justice? Wasn’t that what he was in this job for? Did Callio not deserve that, at least? If it had been Aly who met her fate in those woods, wouldn’t you part sky and sea to bring her vengeance?

A few hours later Redan passed under the impassive gaze of the judiciary centurions, trying to look the appropriate amount of innocently haggard. That wasn’t hard; it was early evening by now. All petitions had ended, most of the staff had returned home save those catching up. It was quiet, and nobody ever noticed someone with bored confidence and paperwork.

With an ache in his lower back, he lugged the overflowing box of testaments down the hallways of crimson carpets, puffing past ostentatious tapestries of the long forgotten. He took the first staff elevator he found deeper into the sub-levels, grateful for the chance to put the damn thing down.

Redan took a ragged breath as the descent began. He shouldn’t be nervous, it wasn’t espionage. He was one of a short list of people with the right to look at these documents. He was the public attorney on this case, it should come as no surprise if he had a look at the final report.

Then why haven’t you had a look before? a small voice whispered. You’ve had years.

They would know if he looked. Was that worth it?

The doors slid open. Redan picked up the box again, stepping out into a more dimly lit area. No tapestries hung on the drab concrete walls, although the same vermillion carpet lined the floor. The hallway lacked the high ceilings of the upper levels, a compact rectangular prism cut straight through the foundations. There were no deviations on that path, and at the far end of the hall was a simple door. A lone centurion stood there, as motionless as the stone around them.

Redan started toward them, a march that seemed to take an eternity. When he arrived, breathless, the centurion still did not move, looking right through him. A small chitter drew his attention.

To his right, cut into the hall so as to be invisible from approach, was a small alcove, windowed off from the hall. Behind the glass was an iridian sitting on a pillow before a computer. Moments before, he was probably bored out of his mind; but now he was looking the newcomer over with interest; seeing being a relative term. Iridians relied on pit-sensors around their snouts to make up for their near-blind eyes.

Iridian always reminded Redan of the monstrous dorri his parents once had, with their long, plated bodies, over-lain by a layer of fuzz. It was a racist comparison to make, however; this was no monster, but a man.

He sighed in relief, giving his colleague a nod. “Evenin’ Marrick. Long day?”

“Long enough,” the alien clattered, the words enthused with far too much enthusiasm by his translator. Marrick’s head twitched and chittered as he tasted the air. “Fallow’s fall, you smell just like my old pater. He’s dead.”

“’Cause you’re the font of youth,” Redan grunted easily. He patted the box. “Just dropping this pile off.”

The alien clicked his mandibles sardonically; a radji would have tutted. “Been putting this off have you, shortstuff?”

“Yeah yeah, laugh it up fuzzball.”

Marrick made a deep-throated, clicking sound, and swiped a card behind his desk. He waved Redan through with a stubby arm. “Go on,” he guffawed.

“Always nice chattin’ with ya, Marrick,” Redan said, hefting the box again.

“Better than this lump of fur,” the man grumbled plopping back down onto his pillow, and, pressing a button, the door swung open of its own accord. The centurion didn’t react any more than to stand aside. Redan stepped through, the door swinging shut again behind him with a solid clunk.

The records department was a strange space. Slab-grey walls were propped up by the same low ceiling that, like the hallway outside, was only adorned by soft orange lights that hummed above his head. A second door from the one he entered sat on the wall to his left, the words ‘Evidence Appraisal’ carved into the concrete above. Temporary holding of relevant exhibits would sometimes be held there.

Redan’s view of the whole area was restricted by rows upon rows of old wooden shelves; reference materials, books, and legal documents carefully arranged and labelled across them. There was also a smattering of upholstery: cosy chairs with fraying fabric, ornate and well-made tea tables that sat atop comfortable rugs in the open. Hidden in its heart, it was as though this secret library was the grit of sand the crystal of the judiciary had grown from. The justiciars and their underlings also used this space from time to time, although Redan couldn’t imagine them walking through the outer halls to get here. They must have their own secret entrances, he surmised.

At this time of night, the area appeared to be deserted.

The official reports were sealed at the back, so Redan sidled through the department; passing the comfortable chairs and expansive library to where the chamber terminated. The far wall backed onto another more brightly lit but inaccessible chamber, seen only through thick glass. Half set within the glass was an ordinary looking computer, the interface resting on a desk on his side of the glass. To either side of the computer were metal draws; the one to the left was pulled out on his side, the other was not.

In the adjoining chamber, near the glass, was a section of floor with odd, terraced empty sockets set at regular intervals. Behind that were half-a-dozen immense rotarums, paper wound into tight scroll chambers, eighteen chambers a wheel. Beneath this battery, level with the floor was another set of six. Then another. Then another, and another. Below, the paper-vault descended so deep it made his stomach lurch, falling beyond the reach of light. He pulled his eyes up again.

Between the glass and the rotarums was a pair of what looked like massive staplers, each equipped with four spindly, delicate fingers from its base, adjoining a long, tri-folding armature. The arms were rigged onto a track on the ceiling that could join onto any one of the supporting poles that plunged down into the substructure. These were called ‘clippers’: elaborate mechanisms for finding and delivering the vault’s precious contents. They hung coiled in on themselves, like the pincers of a vast rugia, still and patient.

Redan set down the box, pulling out his hastily written testaments, and quickly placed them into the open drawer. Each document had been disassembled into its constituent pages and arranged in a specific order. He slid the drawer shut on his side, pushing them into the antechamber.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then there was a whirring sound, and one of the clippers sprung forward with startling speed, only to hover delicately over the presented document. It took a long look at what Redan had presented it with, then—with a sound he could only read as a dissatisfied sigh—ejected a thin cloud of pale mist over them. In the same instance, its companion darted down into the vault. It returned a few moments later, preceded by an empty rotarum running along a similar armature.

The second machine quickly unlatched its empty canisters to slot them neatly into the floor sockets. Seemingly satisfied with the state of the testaments, the first clipper plucked up the first page, holding it with remarkable deftness. A flickering strip of light flittered across the page in rapid succession as the machine scanned its content. There was a small puff of air applied to each side, and the paper was then slotted into the stationary canister, which in turn was picked up by the other clipper, and promptly thrust into the rotarum. The whole process took only a moment before the next was quickly plucked up.

Redan pulled a chair over, sitting down. He’d done his job. He could still turn back.

But he didn’t.

Redan typed the casefile number into the waiting search bar. He knew it by rote.

The clippers didn’t waver from their task. Instead, a few moments later a third mechanism ascended from the vault, clutching a canister in its segmented digits. Redan peered over the edge once again, slightly unsettled by the sight of many gangly mechanical arms moving backward in the deep. This new clipper rattled forward on its track, unscrewed the canister, and placed it in the right-hand drawer, before curling up into itself.

The man bent down, retrieving the report. As he bent up again, he had the distinct impression that the clipper beyond the glass was looking at him.

He sat back in the chair, holding the document in his paws. DRJ789112: The natural killing of Callio, daughter of Teraka of the Tanoi anuana fruitery, and the subsequent investigation of the Brackwood estate.

“What did you want me to see?” Redan murmured. He turned the page.

It was not light reading, familiar as he was with both legal documents and the tragedies of life. He grunted as he saw that a not insignificant portion of the content had been redacted, the words obliterated by thick black ink. What was left was dry, familiar to him, or deliberately written to be obfuscating. The girl’s post-mortem made him wish it’d also been expunged; she could never have been saved.

What was interesting was that much of the body of the text focused heavily on where the animal had come from. Supposedly it had been an exotic pet, bought as a cub by a rich and extravagant woman further north in the illustrious township of Deansbrook, referencing an older case some two years prior. Redan quickly summoned that casefile, the clipper delivering it with pomp.

The woman’s name had been redacted, as had her affiliation, but Redan’s impression was that she must have been a rich retired magnate, or otherwise a well-off widower who had settled in the rich province to enjoy her final years. Neighbours had become concerned when she was not seen outside her home for several days. A friend had dropped by, only to find her corpse. The extermination office concluded that the roht must have escaped the following investigation and journeyed south to reach the Brackwood. He returned the second document to the waiting clipper, his brow furrowed.

The roht’s autopsy he found to be a mess of black bars. Almost all of the analysis had been redacted, the offices involved in their specific assessments, as well as their scientific references; the judiciary had even ripped out the figures wholesale rather than redacting them by paw.

He skimmed through the thing twice, thrice over, hoping that the errant few words would tell him something, anything new. Nothing he did not already know. Moving to toss it back in the drawer, he flicked across the opening pages.

Redan stopped. He could not quite believe his eyes. The record keeper had failed to redact the table of contents. They’d made a mistake!

“Summary,” he read under his breath, “Recommendations for policy… Involved persons and agencies, regional context, implications…” His eyes skimmed down the list. “Autopsy: Critical findings… Cause of death…” His breath hitched as he read the words. “Three letters…” he said under his breath.

A silence befell him, the room, and seemingly the whole world. This was it; this was what Teraka had wanted him to see.

His comm chimed loudly, startling him. He looked up. All the clippers had finished their tasks and had curled up into the ceiling. How long have I been here? he wondered, digging about in his satchel for the device. Finding it, he looked at the sender.

A response! My message to Wyla… He opened it.

{THE ACCOUNT YOU WERE TRYING TO REACH HAS BEEN DISENGAGED.}

~*~

Redan sat by her bedside, stroking her peaceful head. He had read to her until long after the sun went down, reciting the adventures of Lightspeed Lal until his throat went dry. He made sure to describe each brightly coloured picture in as much detail as he could, how heroic Lal was, how dastardly the cold-hearted reptilian robots from dimension P30. He’d run out of material in a week, but he could always go find more.

Aletra would always insist he was doing all the voices wrong, that he was mispronouncing words on purpose just to make her laugh. She was right of course, anything to make her smile. He needed her smile, her mad giggle.

Now it was too quiet.

Redan checked his mug again; still empty. He’d drunk it hours ago. He shouldn’t have stayed up to rush through the testaments, then gone looking through the reports. He wished he hadn’t seen…

“I… I don’t know what to do sweetheart,” he whispered to her. “Daddy’s really trying his best. He misses Mummy too, y’know? We’re gonna get you out of here. I… I don’t think it’s safe anymore.”

A nurse, a curly-furred woman sporting a short beige-coloured apron, crept quietly in carrying laundry. She gave him the well-practiced, blank smile of one at work that meant nothing. He gave her a nod in reply and went back to rubbing Aletra’s paw.

“You’re here late,” the woman commented, folding the sheets into a closet. “We’ve got people who can watch her, you know?”

“I know,” Redan murmured wearily. “I’m where I need to be.”

The woman glanced over the display, nodded to herself, and hovered by the foot of the bed for a moment. She smiled wanly, gesturing to his mug. “Get you a refill, honey?”

Redan sighed from exhaustion, smiling gratefully at her. “Oh, please.” She took the mug and left. He rubbed at his scruffy neck, feeling older than his years.

Three letters… the sequencing would have been expensive. Specialised. Not many people would have the resources. But where did it come from? And how did Teraka know it was there? None of it made sense, but Redan could understand perfectly why this made Juran, the judiciary, maybe even the council, nervous. If the people found out about this it would incite panic and a lot of uncomfortable questions.

The nurse returned, placing a full mug of steaming tea on the bedside table. He thanked her; it smelt divine.

She stopped at the door on the way out. “Say, honey, I think there was someone lookin’ for you earlier. A taller gentleman.”

“For me? Who?”

“I’m not sure, one of the doctors I think. I’ll let him know you’re here, hm?”

Perhaps it was one of the specialists Tyra had mentioned. Redan wasn’t too sure about the notion, but perhaps he could help. He sipped from his new drink, darkly amused that a sanatorium had better tea than the justice department.

There was a knock, the door opening with a slow creak. Redan looked over, his heart seizing in his chest.

Juran stepped in, the top of his head just skimming beneath the frame. Redan found himself staring; for someone so tall he moved with remarkable grace. No… not grace, purpose.

“Hello Redan,” the thin man said, looming over where Redan sat. “I hope I’m not intruding.”

“N-no, I–” he stammered. You don’t know him, he reminded himself. Play it straight. “I, uh… sorry, did Tyra send you? I don’t think we’ve met.”

“No and no,” he said, the pale white eyes digging into him. “The good doctor is indisposed for the moment.”

Redan swallowed in a dry mouth. “Nothing serious, I hope?”

“Not at all. She’s… a busy woman. This place—,” the pale eyes looped up and around the room, “—is lucky to have her.” The eyes latched onto Aly, Redan instinctively scooting his chair closer to her, between the two of them. He dare not stand, his legs would shake.

“You know her, Mr…?” he said leadingly, drawing the eyes back to him. There was a thin, sharp smile there.

“You know who I am,” Juran purred. “Tell me Redan, do you believe in fate?”

“Fate?” Redan murmured hoarsely. He needed to get someone in here, get a witness to his presence.

Juran nodded slowly, sauntering over to gaze out the window. Quietly as he could, Redan pulled close the panic alarm where it dangled from the side of the bed and pressed it.

“That Tyra should be here, like the conscience of Ki-ra once again…”

The doctors will burst in any second. “If you have anything you want to confess to,” Redan grunted, “I can free my schedule.”

Juran chuckled. “No, thank you. Someday perhaps. In any case, my duty here is done.” He turned back from the window, wearing a tight grimace. “You’ve worked so hard, I must apologise. You really are a spectacular attorney.”

“Apologise?” He jammed down the button as hard as he could.

“For the chemical agent I’ve put in your drink.” Redan blinked up at him, befuddled. His first response was to guffaw, but when the thin man did naught more than watch him he went cold. He tried to stand but found his legs had stopped working. In a panic he pulled up the alarm, thumbing it wildly.

“Oh, come now Redan. No one else is here at this time of night. It’ll only take a minute. I’m sorry it should take so long, but it needs to appear natural.” Redan’s face was going slack. “But it’s usually quite painless.” With his waning strength, he focused hard on his claws. The effort was so great, it felt like shifting a hovercar, but he managed to reach the side of his chair.

“Wh… who arrr…” he slurred. His claw dug into the soft wood. J…

“A concerned party. We normally dislike this kind of, ah… clandestine work.” U… “But as you deduced, there was something else found in the creature’s autopsy.” Redan’s rapidly decelerating neurons tripped over the last of his evidence. Three letters.

“D…D…” R…

“Deoxyribonucleic acid,” the spectre said, casually looking through Redan’s satchel. “It’s one of the alien forms of genetic carrier; only a little different from our own, but still different enough. Completely foreign to the Cradle. You were right Redan, there’s something unusual happening on that property, something beyond our designs… and I have to be careful.” Redan’s head turned sluggishly to the hospital bed beside him. His little girl, his Aly, fast asleep. A…

“I’m so very sorry,” the voice said, the only voice. “We’ll do our best for her, I promise. If it’s any consolation, this is all done in the service of the radji people.” Juran moved from his sight, his footsteps disappearing down the hall.

Aly… he had to save Aletra… it had all been for her, it had to work out… Redan tried to move to her, but all he did was slide out of his seat, the carpet pressing against his face.

His vision narrowed, and he had the sensation of falling down a totally dark, infinitely deep well, his arm stretching up to the chair far above him.

N…

---

And if it should be that this baby’s a girl,

O never you mind if her hair doesn’t curl.

With rings on her fingers and bells on her toes,

And a shadow above her wherever she goes,

Sang the crow on the cradle.

The crow on the cradle, the black and the white,

O somebody’s baby is born for a fight.

The crow on the cradle, the white and the black,

O somebody’s baby is not coming back,

Sang the crow on the cradle.

– The Crow and the Cradle, Sydney Carter, 1963.