CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN - SWALLOWING SALT

The cold-house loomed above. Not the one she was... captured inside. The one she'd first investigated, where Tyer and Beldol had worked before... everything. She could just imagine the old man saying to himself with brutal confident in himself and his purpose that it was 'unhealthy for one of our own, and not one of our trustworthy sorts, to associate so freely with a Fidelizhi harlot. Better to work to break that apart, subtle as you can. Don't want that lad having a single split loyalty, eh?' And with that, signing off on the overseers putting them on the wrong shifts, moving them around, getting one of the company bosses to move Beldol to the cold-houses... isolating Tyer by any means necessary. Removing his lover, so the cartel could take her place. And then Lyur had decided to intervene. Bring the truncheon down on the whole operation. Make it all too elaborate, too rapid, too... riddled with inconsistencies, demanding far too much perfection from every person involved. Just to make sure everything went wrong. Still didn't...get him. Didn't see any benefit. Enjoyment, yes, but that was purely an academic understanding of him, viscerally it did not make sense to her, no matter how many historical cases of deranged maniacs she dragged out of her memory-room.

Anyway.

She shivered in the cold. Wrapped her old cape around her a little tighter. Her buffalo pelt was getting... tanned. Yes, she got the joke. Very funny. But she wanted to keep it. Every judge kept souvenirs of their cases, even if they didn't tend to admit it. When the memory-room was too full, you worked to encode every memory of a case onto an object from it, storing it away and filing it into the dark. Siphoning it away like... too much water from a reservoir. Maybe there was a delusion there, a belief that she could just... cut this out of herself, this whole colonial expedition, and force it into a cape, a knife, a handful of ribbons, a stolen tie. She adjusted the ribbons keeping her cape on - the governor's tie being prominent amongst them. Felt like he was settling onto her shoulders, harsh and authoritative. What had Vyuli said? That he considered himself the second governor of Rekida, one joint of the colonial diarchy? Well. In that case, she could at least have the other half watching over her. She walked alone in the street, papers under one arm, lenses pushed up into her hair like she'd just been interrupted from her work. Letting an unnamed god of intensely competent and profoundly detached bureaucrats flow through her, chilling her blood until it matched her surroundings, chaining her heart to a steady pace like you would an ornery horse in need of breaking.

And most importantly, she had a dress with intact sleeves. He wouldn't see the wound he'd made. Her wrists were covered... mostly, but there was still a small fragment of white bandages poking out if she sat poorly. The odd movements necessary to hide them just became part of the godly costume.

The... uh...

Right, the Scribbling-Sedulous-Scrivener.

That didn't make her sound insane at all. Feh. She walked alone - no guards necessary on the way over, but she insisted on nearby guards during the meeting. People stayed out of her way. Everyone stayed out of everyone's way. The same policy as the shantytown - when the people in the streets drew their knives and started snarling, close the windows, bolt the doors, and hide under the floorboards until the calamity ended. Behaviour instilled by the Erlize, by the gangs themselves, by the entire rotten situation. She felt carried on the current of a sluggish-yet-powerful river, inevitable for all its largeness, for how much trash clogged it. Part of a system of cause and effect, linking back so far beyond her capacity to influence or understand that... what could she do but be carried along? Sooner or later, the Erlize would just... chip away the incompetents, over and over and over, until only the best cartels remained. Natural selection, that was the... happening theory at the moment, wasn't it? Was it just inevitable that at some point, a cartel would get good enough to try something as bold as this, would have so much competition eliminated...

And she was the person who wound up in this slot. Actor chosen to play a role, and unable to reject it.

Oh, well.

She came to a stop at the foot of the hill leading to the cold-house. It sat, dark and forbidding on the horizon. The sun had descended behind it, and it seemed to give the place a monolithic air, like it was slowly leaking light in a vague pale halo. She shivered in the cold, flinching as flakes brushed her uncovered cheeks. A few men in dark coats came out of a nearby building... saluted sharply. Thank every god for that, her heart was starting to do interesting things out of paranoia. One of them stepped forwards and nodded politely. A second... and she remembered that she ought to nod back as well. Just to be professional.

"Sersa."

"Honoured judge."

A second of silence. He came a little closer - she could feel the warmth of his breath on her face. His eyes were dark and moving about nervously, checking every angle, every possible place where an assassin could be hiding. Tanner stiffened her back a little, refining the white-hot string that she'd crushed into shape, all her absolute terror and simmering doubt squeezed until it occupied the smallest possible space. Restrained as much as she could. Imagined some monstrous theurgic engine scooping out her brain and replacing it with nothing but shivering machinery, immaculate and faultless. If she looked up, she could see the wall-statues - be like them. Hard, unyielding, emotionless. Never complaining about their lot, conveying a hundred words with nothing but silent expressions. Built to intimidate, built to chain the world. Practically idols of restraint, her own beliefs taken to a universal level. If she ignored the horrific conditions of most of that city's people, she could almost find herself liking that way of seeing the universe. Had a certain... mechanical logic to it all. The universe was independent, it didn't care about her, or anyone else in this place. Either you broke it, or it broke you.

When mutants seemed liable to come over the horizon at any moment, that was a belief system with at least a little credence.

Oh. Goodness. Bayai was quite close indeed.

"Are you certain you're alright doing this, Tanner? It's... irregular, using judges like this. Very irregular."

Tanner blinked. Was very glad for the conealing nature of her dress and cape, stopped any hint of blush showing. She sniffed a little (goodness, he smelled of sandalwood and bay rum, stop it Tanner) in an effort to seem haughty, straightened her back...

"It's part of my job. We mediate disagreements all the time."

"...with criminals?"

"Technically, all criminal trials are just... mediating disagreements between two systems of law, one which is rational and cohesive, and the other of which is insane, criminal, and breaks down when poked."

"With people that kidnapped you and, based on what you said, tried to kill you?"

"...that's more unusual."

She took a deep breath.

"But it's my job."

There was a flicker of understanding that crossed his face. He studied her for a few more seconds, his thoughtful eyes scanning every inch of her habitually still face. He hummed... and then reached out firmly, clapping her on both shoulders at once with a brusque, military smartness. His moustachioed mouth crinkled into a tight smile. And when he next spoke, there was a genuine air of... something in it, something that made Tanner freeze a little to keep her body language under control.

"Header of a woman, you are, miss. Header of a woman. Should've been a soldier, you should. And I'll say this for nowt - you said you'd only been a proper judge for a year, should've had six or seven other judges out here with you. But you're here, and here you remain, and for that you've got more worth than a dozen of your Lords of Appeal. And better hair. Presumably."

Tanner's collarbone turned a shade of red usually reserved for coal pit fires in the middle of opium poppy fields at sunset. Thank every god for her dress and cape. Thank Ms. vo Anka for paying for her to enter a career where she wore this sort of thing as a rule. The idea of this happening without the usual veils against embarrassment was... the point was, if an expedition in the far west hadn't died viloently to the last woman, and Tanner had been complimented in such a fashion, she would have detonated. On the spot. Spontaneous combustion in all directions.

The point was, an expedition dying across the mountains had just saved her life.

Again.

And she loved them for it.

"Oh."

A pause.

"Ah."

She shuffled.

"Uh."

Bayai clapped her on the shoulders again.

"Well said. I'll see you up to the cold-house, if'n you don't mind. None of the others, trying to keep things low-key. But feels rotten letting you walk up there on your lonesome."

Tanner squeaked out a response. Not used to this. Very not used to this

.

"Well, I think you're... terribly high-up here, you said there weren't many other commanders, I'd hate to put you in danger for my sake, ah, and I would hate for... for a breakdown in matters, which may well happen, to prompt such a grievious, uh, blow to the colony. Sir. Sersa. Bayai."

She bowed a little, and planted mental hands around both sides of the narrow white-hot thread of emotion, squeezing it tighter, refusing to allow the little waves of heat it was expelling in all directions. Bayai smiled faintly, and walked off towards the house regardless, letting Tanner hurry to catch up with him. Well, she said hurry, but really she just... walked. Long legs. Her fast walk was someone else's jog. And the moment they had left the other soldiers behind, he murmured to her, mouth barely moving at all - good skill, that. Wonder how he'd gone about developing it.

"Espionagical thing, I'm afraid. Two other Sersas in the colony, no higher-ranking officers. Governor never wanted someone on his level marching around, wanted to be the most senior officer by leaps and bounds."

"I recall. You mentioned it in the cantina."

"Feels like a hundred years ago, that. Anyway. The other two..."

He made a small face. Tanner immediately felt a chill run down her spine, silencing her earlier embarrassment.

"...they're in... with them?"

"Mr. Canima's of the opinion that they might be... susceptible to bribery. Bribery, intimidation... and, if they felt like being pragmatic, they might decide to work with them just to keep the colony alive. See cooperation as a route to avoid civil war. Point is, they're definitely inclined to collaboration. Older than me, more experienced than me, but that means they've been in this absolute mire for much longer than I have. Can imagine they've turned a blind eye to a... lot of affairs."

Another legacy of the governor. For his type of governance to work, he needed soldiers who were willing to keep their mouths, eyes, and ears as tightly shut as if they were a pile of clams at low tide. By encouraging that behaviour, he gave another niche for corruption to fester. They were already turning a blind eye to the criminals the governor was using as his own squad of brutes, why not turn a blind eye to everything else? The disappearances, the beatings, the curfew-breaking... gods, all that time ago, back when she entered the colony, she'd noted to the governor that the soldiers weren't policing all the curfew-breaking she noticed from time to time. Thought it was just... harmless incompetence, or just being good-natured towards the civilians. Hadn't thought about it at all once she'd come to that conclusion. Colony was a closed system, everything was connected to everything else. Nothing was untouched by corruption. She sighed slightly, putting things together.

"And by coming along with me, you make it seem like no-one's the wiser about the others, make them feel more confident."

"More or less. It's petty, but it might work."

"I'd still rather you weren't in harms way, Sersa."

"Well, walked too far at this point, I'd look bloody ridiculous if I turned on my heel and lef- hup, patch of ice there."

Tanner felt his arm clasping her elbow, and she locked in place immediately, eyes darting... there, nearly hidden beneath a fresh layer of snow, too fresh for the natural moisture of the ice to have softened and washed it away. She remained frozen until Bayai removed his arm and she felt like speaking again.

"Oh. Ah. Thank you."

"Don't mention it."

They walked onwards in silence, unwilling to talk with the house so near. It was just as she remembered it. A red brick tomb, lurking on the hill staring down at the colony like a hungry wolf. Banished from the heat of human contact, kept alone in the cold and the dark, perpetually ravenous. She remembered the stink of the spices in the tunnels, the wheezing of the theurgic engine as it kept everything dehydrated and isolated from any contaminating air. The endless hides, the bones, the eyeless skulls of pigs hanging overhead in the darkness, leering like theatrical masks from some savage opera. The old man would be in here. The heavy metal door seemed... gods, of course they had such a door as this, it was a fortress, a bunker. A knife at the throat of the colony. If a full-on war was waged... she could easily imagine the consequences. Soldiers trooping up this steep hill, sitting ducks for the cold-house. Battering at the metal doors, while it was defended with all the might at the defender's disposal. Get inside... maybe you were incinerated by a detonating theurgic engine that spelled starvation for all your kin, maybe you had to fight through endless ancient tunnels, unmapped by your fellows, picked off one by one. In such close quarters, guns would mean less, knives and clubs would mean so much more.

This was a death trap.

And as she approached the front gate, she felt her heart beating faster and faster, felt herself imagining every binding force that was going to keep her going. The lodge, glaring imperiously from miles and miles away. Her mother and father, sending her away to study and improve herself. Sister Halima and all the other judges, the Lord of Appeal towering above, demanding that she act as judges had done for untold centuries. Another link in a perpetual golden braid. The governor's tie that held her cape together brought him to settle on her shoulders, digging his broken fingers into her flesh, insisting she do the job she was brought here to do. To save his colony now he couldn't. Lantha, insisting she avenge her death, make her torment worth something, spite the mutants that were coming for her. Tyer, Lam, the unnamed soldier, even Myunhen, every last dead body she'd failed to save. Lyur, challenging her to live on by the force of her own willpower. Every expectation, every god, every last watcher. And all around thrummed strings of black witchcraft, and a world of bad luck that neither gloves nor ornate pince-nez could quite filter away. The weight of expectations crushing down on her from all sides.

If she didn't have such a powerful back, she could imagine herself breaking under the burden.

Well.

Bayai didn't squeeze her shoulder or send any other signs of reassurance. Not in front of the enemy. Tanner took a deep breath... reached out, and knocked smartly on the metal door, the surface ringing like a bell, echoing in the night before the snow devoured the sound and left nothing behind. A second of clamour, followed by the sound of her own breathing, and nothing more.

There was a rattle. A click. A sub-door opened.

And a man with red-rimmed, tired eyes stared up at her from far below. Knew him by sight - a man with twitching eyes, always trying to narrow to a squint, and always resisting. Deeply hunched, with a gammy leg.

Tanner didn't smile at him.

"I'm here to see Vyuli, as requested."

The man hummed. Snorted. Grinned up toothily.

"Been a while. You look worse for wear, judge-woman."

Tanner didn't dignify that with a response.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

"Sorry for all the lying and whatnot last time, hm. Not exactly my business, you see, not something I'm fond of doing. But that boy, that girl... well, both of them had their problems. Just the big man's business, judge-woman. No need for a mask this time, not unless you feel like it."

A pause.

"Soldier pisses off."

Tanner stiffened, and spoke quietly, yet firmly.

"He remains outside the cold-house, and I may ask to leave from time to time to inform him that I am still negotiating."

"Have to ask."

"If you must ask, then ask. I'll wait."

He shuffled on his feet, eyes twitching, brows furrowing... then with a grunt, he directed her to enter.

"Go on, then. Stay out here, big boy."

Bayai said nothing. Simply glowered at him. And that was all. Tanner entered quietly, brushing snow from her cloak as she went, kicking her heels to free snow from the grooves of her shoes. Much as she remembered it - a warm antechamber before the main cold-room, a vestibule with some small comforts for the workers. Empty, completely empty. Could see a cupboard bursting with coats, more than the workers needed. Of course there were too many - they had a whole cartel functioning in the tunnels beneath their feet, they were just carrying around a few tools for them on the surface. Sloppy, but... one little act of easily excused sloppiness was one thing. Nothing to build a conclusion on. But now she had the context for this evidence, she found herself cursing her own incompetence. Should've followed through. The man reached out curtly, patting her down for any weapons, gesturing for her little case of tools so he could examine them for weaponry. Nothing. Not even her truncheon. And as he worked, he spoke.

"Not going to be alone in there, sorry to say. Going to be with the big man, maybe two others. Don't want you getting any ideas, you see? And if you do, if you think you can move faster - trust me, the big man moves faster than anyone. And we'll stuff you in one of the jars, drain all the air out of the thing, leave you to suffocate before we send you to the mansion wrapped up with a nice big bow."

Tanner glanced down at the spiteful little wretch rummaging around her quill-case with unpleasantly dirty fingers.

"I'm not sure if you have a large enough jar."

"Eh, cut you up, cure you limb by limb, we're good at improvising. Wouldn't be here if we weren't, no?"

Tanner blinked.

"...did you come here with Vyuli?"

"Sure. Two of us came down from Nalser together in the old, old days."

Put an old companion in charge of one of his little fortresses, at least in terms of regulating entrance and exit, negotiating with visitors. Idly, she wondered if this little fellow had ever done something wrong, and had been overlooked due to his personal connections. If Vyuli might end up chaining himself, just like the governor had.

He didn't pass her a coat, like he had last time. The crippled attendant just shoved curtly at the front door, then shuffled over to shove at the next door, the sturdy metal rattling away to send out a blast of unyielding cold, and the sound of a vast engine wheezing like a tobacco-stained lung, draining life from the glass jars scattered all around.

And in the middle...

Vyuli.

Same as he'd been before. Hunched on a leather stool, perched gargoyle-like. Refusing to sit on a chair with a back, because that was harder to flee from.

Smile as warm as a skull. Eyes as sad as could be. Half-paralysed face, scarred and flayed by the cold. A face characterised by youth voluntarily sacrificed in the name of survival, giving way to slow, cold, deliberate existence. Even had the same suit on, and she... gods, she could see a stain around his hand where he'd cut her, where her blood had soaked his skin. Hadn't washed it.

Wanted to send a message.

At least he had his clothes on. That meant he wasn't intending to torture her yet. Or he was willing to sacrifice the suit.

He stared.

She stared back.

Swallowed down her paralysing fear, added it to the razor-thin string of emotions coiling around her spine, a string that boiled with suppressed force.

"Mr. Vyuli."

"Judge."

"You wished to talk. As... sole appointed judge for this colony, I am... am to take over the role of mediator for negotiations."

She pulled a few lenses over her eyes, hoping to conceal the nervousness she was certain was boiling through them. Mounted an automatic quill. And looked around... there, a small table. Easy to pull over, where she could spread some papers out. Her own file on the case, and some blank sheets for her current notes. The regular, ritualised motions reassured her, just a little. Kept her heart from pounding out of her chest. Even so - the wounds around her wrists and arm seemed to burn like the brands you stamped into oxen. A reminder that this man... in Marana's words, he had breath that stank of iron. The will of a murderer was in him. It'd been unleashed before. Doubtless it would be unleashed again.

She glanced.

Could see shadows at the edges of the room, hiding amidst the meat and the glittering jars, eyes dark with caution. No sign of Lyur.

She might be able to get to Vyuli.

Might.

Not gambling everything on a might. Not yet, at least.

The old man stared at her for a few long moments... and snorted.

"Flat face. Same as before. Never considered playing cards for a living?"

Gods, Canima saying she should be an Erlize officer, Bayai saying she'd make a good soldier, and now a recommendation to become a card shark.

She was a judge. She had a cape. It was highly noticeable. Tanner didn't bother looking up from her preparations, flipping through a few pages of the folder to keep her hands and mind busy.

"Is Pyulmila with you?"

Another snort.

"Down in the tunnels. Keeping her under bloody lock and key until she learns some damn sense."

"And Lyur?"

"None of your concern."

Tanner looked up.

"He was responsible for Pyulmila botching the Tyer business, helped turn it into a bloodbath. He let me go, too. Gave me enough chances to flee. He-"

The old man waved his hand sharply.

"None of that. Something's going on, and my interest is with my people. Your business is with yours. I'll deal with things as I like, you just sit there and tell me what's happening. Why everything's so damn hot. Why my boys keep talking about that Erlize bastard staying up all night, working at something. Why no war's started."

He leant a little, gripping both of his knees with ferocious force, his eyes blazing with interest. Tanner felt an immediate surge of annoyance - why wasn't he angry about Lyur? No, no, he... this was a cartel founded by a crazed old man who wanted to revive his dead city in the nearest vacant spot, in times of crisis he'd huddle close with his own. A solid wall against the outside world, no way in. Shantytown policy, she imagined - the Erlize would go for the weakest links first, so any criminal organisation worth its salt would cluster tight around those links, hiding them from the outside world. Suppressed her annoyance with some difficulty.

Tanner hummed.

Steepled her fingers.

Looked up from her work.

"You may wish to tell your guards to leave. This information is deeply sensitive."

"Nice try, young lady."

Tanner's eyes remained flat and dull, and her voice was a relentless monotone.

"Would you rather if I was tied up again?"

"Didn't work last time. Excellent arms on you, incidentally."

She despised him. She despised him.

"You were right in front of me, Mr. Vyuli, and I was significantly fresher. I'm certain you're safe from me now."

Greater distance. Greater weakness. He as fresh as could be, and she was verging on spoiled. Truth be told, there was... something about him which made her feel oddly incapable of killing him. Staring into his sad, sad eyes, she tried to wonder what he'd been through. Not in terms of sympathy. In terms of sizing him up, gaining his measure. Remember one of the first lessons of investigation she'd figured out in this place - always do her homework. Never enter an interview without good knowledge of the broader situation, and the person being interviewed. She knew nothing about Vyuli beyond what he'd said. And last time, she'd just been terrified, too terrified to examine him. Now, she had a chance. So... incredible hardship on the way south from Nalser. Three daughters. And to her understanding, two were dead. Only Pyulmila, only Tom-Tom. Several wives. One dead in childbirth, no clue about the others. Shantytown, cartel, all that business. Tired beyond measure.

She tried to imagine what he'd gone through on the way south. He'd only mentioned brutality, and... cannibalism. Chewing up the dead so his infant daughter could choke it down, even as a newborn. She tried and failed to imagine what else. There was a scale of suffering that... she found hard to picture. Careless savagery. She felt small in the face of it, and one who survived it seemed to have a kind of absoluteness, completeness that she lacked. Felt soft.

She didn't know much. But she could guess, from his eyes, from his life, that he'd never stop. He'd already explored the depths of his resolve, had no doubt they ran deeper than most people's. She was dealing with someone who could endure... just about anything.

He clicked his fingers. And the men at the sides of the room filed away to the vestibule, shutting the door behind them without any objection.

"Go on."

Tanner got her wits together. Extricated herself from those eyes.

And began to talk.

"In the snow fields, I met a woman called Lantha..."

* * *

When she'd finished, the man remained silent for some time. Staring at the ground like he wasn't even listening, only the slow rise and fall of his shoulders indicating any life in his aged frame. The engine behind him continued to wheeze, continued to maintain the airless, bone-dry conditions the meat craved. Tanner shivered slightly, despite herself. The cold was tremendous, and sitting still didn't give her much chance to warm back up again. The hung, cured meat gleamed around them, glass jars shining like enormous eyes. And in the middle, Vyuli. Silence endured. Tanner didn't add anything else to the tale, though there was more she could add. The steam fissure in the snow-field, which revealed the governor to be a liar for reasons unknown. The fact that she still didn't know how killed the governor in the first place, that ascribing it to the mutants didn't sit right with her. Happy to describe the mutants she'd seen, though. Including the ones holed up in the city, the strongest proof of something unnatural going on. Vyuli remained where he was, hunched over, resembling a very large cricket with his long, bony legs, his black suit, his dark eyes, and his curved back that gave his shoulders a thuggish, thorax-like mien.

And slowly, his voice emerged.

"The body has been burned."

"Contamination, Mr. Vyuli. I can verify that Ms. Lantha gave the statement before her death - myself, Sersa Bayai, and Mr. Canima. Mr. Canima's... desire is that there should, at least, be a period of deliberation or negotiation. If there is an oncoming invasion, then I think there's... room for compromise. That's Mr. Canima's view."

"And yours?"

Tanner bit down her own thoughts, and spoke mildly.

"I am here to act as a proxy, I was not instructed to provide my opinions on further courses of action."

"But I'm to trust your words. That this woman lived, told all of this, and then died in fire. No evidence beyond a soot stain and some ash in an urn, ash that could be from any date, any mutant."

Tanner felt her heart sink.

"...that's correct, Mr. Vyuli."

"And were I to trust your words, I'd have to shut my mouth, cooperate, give your people time to regroup."

"Mr. Vyuli, Mr. Canima's opinion is that this is a credible threat, he wouldn't-"

"Mr. Canima is a member of the Erlize, woman. Secret police. I've seen them beat men so thoroughly they can't hear the questioning past all the blood in their ears, seen people vanish and never come back. That lot breaks down our doors and ransacks our homes, takes apart our festivals, demolishes our temples, punishes us when we don't speak their language, gets suspicious when we even dare use our own accents. The pestle crushing us into the shantytown's mortar, crushing us until there's nothing to distinguish us from anyone else, nothing to keep our old peoples alive. Turning us into... anonymous, enslaved dust. Identical to all the other grains. Identical and interchangeable, and never meant to be anything greater."

His voice remained low and steady, at no stage rising, not even speeding up. He was reciting this as a basic creed, a fact of the universe. The conclusion these facts reached wasn't stated. But it was spelled out.

They do all this. And I should trust one of them enough to abandon my work, to leave my people vulnerable, to jeaporadise the whole operation.

He looked up.

"Alternative condition. Mr. Canima surrenders immediately. All authority transfers to me, all soldiers are ordered to not resist. We already have officers in their ranks paid off, they just need to start taking their orders from them, and them from me. He stays in the tunnels as insurance, and abdicates the colony to us in every sense. We access every document, we adminstrate every detail, we harvest every resource. The colony is ours. We already control most of it, we want the last holdouts to give themselves up without a fight. If we fight, we're dead. If he concedes, we can unite and get on with this mutant business, if this mutant business is true."

Tanner blinked.

She'd... had a few instructions on this. She wrote down the demands in careful lettering, the sound of her scribbling taken away in moments by the endless wheezing and gasping of the engine. A bomb that could kill... a lot of people if it went off, the amount of food in here... not sure how much of the tunnel system it would collapse, but it might well kill a fair number of people in the colony over the coming months. Right, right, how to respond, how to respond...

"Is... there a more mild alternative you would consider accepting?"

His own response had none of her hesitation.

"No. We own this colony, we own the food, we own the bouncers, we own the overseers. If Mr. Canima truly believes that the colony is about to be menaced by a horde of mutants, then he should demonstrate that belief by handing the place over. Unless he'd rather us die instead of losing control of us."

He leaned in a little.

"Would you trust a man who'd prioritise control over survival?"

Trust him more than she trusted Vyuli. He was doing exactly the same bloody thing, but... no, no, Vyuli likely thought of this as rightful rulers erasing a little holdout of the old regime. Canima might see it as rightful rulers wiping out a budding insurrection. Both seeing themselves as the voice of unity for the colony, as the hegemony tainted by a single lingering fault. Correct the fault, and all would be well.

"There are... those in the colony who might object to you seizing total control."

"Who."

"The Fidelizhi citizens, for one. A fair number of the soldiers."

No names. Not yet. Vyuli smiled sadly.

"The Fidelizhi are either random civilians, who I think would prefer living to dying as loyal subjects... or they're merchants, usurers, factory owners. We already run their factories, work in them at every level. What could they offer?"

Connections back to Fidelizh. Investment for the colony. Legitimacy. Without them, the place would suffer from massive losses of resources, specialists, hard-to-produce equiipment... and how many people would remain here if they were just getting paid by the people who had practically bullied them into coming in the first place? Vyuli was old, he...

She paused. Thinking things through very carefully.

"...I'll let Mr. Canima know about your proposal."

For the first time, Vyuli's voice rose a little, and Tanner legitimately shivered, memories of knives in the dark, knives in the dark-

No, stop it, keep her heart still.

"We have food and men. I can command more loyalty from this colony with my little finger than an Erlize officer could command with his whole body. You're asking shantytowners to side with someone who has worked tirelessly in Fidelizh to make their lives more miserable, more poor, and more isolated than any other citizen of that damn city. Mr. Canima would wipe us out, he has to wipe us out. We, on the other hand, are happy to live here peacefully until such a time as we can become independent of the heartland."

Live here peacefully... they'd murdered and intimidated gladly to live here peacefully. And he was asking shantytowners to be loyal to a criminal boss, an old criminal boss with, by his own admittance, less and less in common with them as the years rolled on and their homeland was forgotten.

No, say nothing, just write down the justification to read to Mr. Canima.

She knew how this would go. They'd take Mr. Canima and kill him. Maybe not immediately, but after a while. The Fidelizhi citizens would either get in line, or die. The factory owners were oblivious, already stayed isolated from the bulk of the citizenry. Wouldn't take much work ot keep them in line, to remove those interested in causing problems. Then, wait for a tame governor to come in, inexperienced, unused to this place, and control him with lazy ease. She almost, almost wanted to believe Vyuli when he said that he could save this place, because he seemed so... domineering, so powerful, so profoundly enduring. But she knew what he did to keep the peace. To achieve his goals. To simply get all the information he needed out of a captive judge.

She couldn't trust him to not purge all opposition. To kill her and all her companions, just to plug a leak.

The two sat in silence for a moment, Vyuli done with his demands, Tanner writing them all down.

She asked a small question. Just one.

"But you do believe-"

"I don't. If Canima does, then he should abdicate. If he does, then I'll play along. If he doesn't, then clearly, either the mutants aren't coming and he was lying, or he thinks death is better than losing control. And I suppose we're going to have to tear each other apart like savages."

His tone was gruff. Firm. Brooked no argument. All Tanner had was the testimony of a dead woman, and some sightings, some conjecture. She had every reason to lie to him, as did the other eyewitnesses. And without his assistance, the colony... no, it needed to be organised, they couldn't be drowning in politics when the mutants came along to kill them all. Even now, they might be losing the opportunity to do anything. Wasting time.

She was too tired to be... furious, but she could feel it pressing against her skin, anger bubbling out. She'd torn her way out of the tunnels to survive, she didn't want to die because of negotiations taking too long.

Her scribbling continued...

And Vyuli's eyes moved suddenly, flicking across the room and fixing on...

On a trapdoor.

With a tiny sliver of light easing through the cracks. Like someone had a lantern. Like someone was down there.

He moved with terrifying speed, darting through the room like a jumping insect, moving for the trapdoor. A muffled sound of movement came from below... and Tanner watched in mild horror as the door was ripped open, and...

And Tom-Tom was dragged out by her hair, her father's grip unnervingly strong despite his age. The woman...

She didn't make a single sound as she was dragged out of the tunnels, her lantern clutched tightly in her hand, her eyes wide with fear.

Just allowed herself to be hauled out and dropped to the ground, the old man breathing heavily through his mouth, the exertion more straining than he clearly wanted to show.

"Told you to stay put."

Tom-Tom said nothing.

"Told you to stick to the tunnels."

Again, nothing.

"What did you hear?"

"...something about mutants, father."

"Look me in the eyes."

She struggled, and managed to meet her father's piercing gaze, while Tanner internally squirmed with second-hand embarrassment.

"You heard about the mutants, Pyulmila?"

"I did, father. I did."

First time Tanner had seen her being so... honest, in a way. No deception, no false accent, no hidden name, nothing. This was Tom-Tom without a single layer of deception clustering around her. And for all she'd done, all the ruin she'd helped bring... Tanner pitied her for being subject to her father's glare. Pitied her for having him as a father. Despite herself, she pitied the woman. Regarded her as a perjurer, a framer, complicit in the deaths of several people, and worthy of a jail sentence for any of those crimes...

But here she was. Maybe a part of her found it hard to truly hate someone who was so clearly out of her depth.

"Your thoughts?"

"...it sounds..."

She glanced at Tanner, just for a second. A single, miniscule second. But there was something in the look, something odd. Something strangely... gods, did she believe Tanner's story? From her perspective, Tanner had... believed her, fought for her, worked for her, pursued doggedly a justice that she had never really needed. Interrogated her gently, offering her a way out, giving her a flattering presentation in her story... and then escaped her father. Something between respect and trust. Not liking, not necessarily, but... definitely more than emnity. Nothing approaching hate or anger.

"It sounds real, father. It sounds... plausible?"

Vyuli stared at her.

And stalked away, muttering to himself.

"Of course you'd find it to be. No more brains in you than a grub. Get back down below, and no more eavesdropping."

"Yes, father."

Another strange look at Tanner...

And the woman was gone. Scuttling away like a girl half her age, terrified of her father's judgement.

Tanner watched her go. And Vyuli snapped over, all calm gone.

"And you. Off. Deliver the message, come back with the reply. Run along back to your master."

Her attempted torturer waved his arm at her like he was seeing off a servant. And once more, the pulse of anger threatened to overcome her practised calm, even the simmering fear that refused to go away whenever he looked at her. She finished her notes without speaking a word, rose, folded her lenses, stowed her automatic quill, pushed her chair quietly under her table, gathered her papers in a neat stack... took her time with it. Didn't want to seem fearful. Vyuli continued to watch her as she packed up, never once daring to let her move around unobserved. She almost imagined him saying 'no hard feelings' or 'the torture was just business'. Some kind of meaningless, patronising platitude that only stirred her anger up hotter than ever. She expected some acknowledgement of what had happened between them, some acknowledgement of what he'd nearly done, and been fully willing to do...

But nothing emerged.

He had no interest in engaging with that. Why bother?

The silence seemed to press around her, though. Louder than any of his words could.

And when she left, the silence followed her out into the snow. Clinging to her like a miasma.

And always she felt his eyes.

His sad, sad eyes.

And felt his iron-scented breath on the back of her neck.