Nemecene: The Epoch of Redress (27 page)

The procession glides southwards on the principle artery and onwards to the Central Core, where thousands of citizens are gathered to welcome his arrival. For the vast majority, it is their initial physical interaction with him, albeit behind a fortress of GMU bodyguards, but for Nathruyu, it is a deliciously intoxicating experience. She casually leans against the base of the Victory Bridge, primed to escape through the hatch at a moment's notice, as the Pramam ceremoniously descends from the escorted convoy in the distance. The wide pathway bisecting the district and the festively decorated catwalks are buzzing with expectant bystanders, straining their necks to glimpse the colorful parade. While the heads bobbing in front of her busily compete with their peers for the choicest view, her thoughts sizzle in the heat of her own excitement.

The advantage is almost too tantalizing to resist. She could quite easily terminate the contest right there, without engaging the surrounding militia, by simply retreating to the underground labyrinth and tracking the Pramam underfoot, till he heedlessly pauses his promotional strut and straddles a hidden vent. But that is not her duty to fulfill.

Staring at the furthest table on the Snack Shack patio, she sees the meddlesome trio absorbed in conversation and swallows a million butterflies. They, also, are within her ominous reach, but the challenge has not yet been answered. She must wait for a sign that Keeto is ready to partake of the game, as opposed to vacillating on the sidelines, and until such a critical juncture occurs, her anonymity must persist.

Her focus returns to the throngs of cheering spectators embossing the petal strewn avenue. Although his well-trained entourage effectively shields him from a clean line of sight, she gapes in shock as they stroll to greet the proud chancellor, who is honored with the task of officially welcoming the preeminent delegation. The two faces flanking the Pramam ram her chest against the stone foundation. Her nemesis, the fair-complexioned one predictably glued to his hip as the devoted guardian, she expected, but the second, anxiously scanning the hordes, elevates the stakes. Her lungs collapse with the dense fear that he might recognize the twins, or perhaps her, dwelling in his periphery, and she hurries to blend into the background by joining a group of enthusiastic tourists engrossed in a holopost advertisement. As soon as the exalted guests cross the island gate, she regains her composure and vanishes into the dispersing crowd, flirtatiously locking her defiant eyes with those of the elated advisor, as he veers eastward on the way to O'Leary Hall.

Back in her studio, she checks the packets she had requested from her defrauded accomplices in the maze and notes the overnight accommodations reserved for the Ministry contingent. Their father's coincidental presence alarms her. According to her observations, the risks to her freedom are substantial, even though they pale in comparison to the irreversible damage his interference could produce. She does not appreciate having her plans sidetracked by yet another prying nuisance, for she is on the verge of rekindling the trio's interest in Mashrin, so that unbeknownst to them and using their keen investigatory skills, they will guide her to the girl's precise holding area. An unofficial appointment at the Ministry House where he is staying should aptly handle the situation.

She fakes a status update by pirating Odwin's nickname in order to appease any suspicious members in the community, and dissects her emotions, combing for conflicts that may jeopardize the most exacting task she has, to date, been summoned to perform. The winds of her imagination snatch her and she lands, dejected, an ailing outcast in a different world.

Cut, bruised, and bleeding, her mangled form hangs from the barren branch of a desolate tree, her torn flesh desperately yearning for his healing touch. The garden, at one time replete with stimulating bouquets of mulberry bushes and quince trees thriving under the loving care of their master, has endured unrelenting hardships at the hands of creation. She is dropped in the midst of a dying landscape, naked and afraid, her memory stripped of who she once was, yet filled with visions of what she has become, visions that will her to survive and pursue that which will save her from an agonizing eternity. As the arid scent of impulsive brush fires snakes towards her in a black ribbon of smoke, her heart chokes with regret whilst her deafening anguish echoes amidst the void of the blazing hills. Sensing herself being dragged deeper and deeper into the nightmare, she tears her lacerated skin from the smoldering thorns and plummets into a dark chasm of despair, tormented and throbbing, until she surrenders to her beckoning destiny.

With immutable conviction, she eradicates any hint of uncertainty and pulls her consciousness from the waking trance. She concludes that no earthly reproach can compare with the fiery hell that dominates her hungering hours, and boldly aims for the king of deception, with the speed of a shooting star.

A GMU unit is stationed around the facility, validating her assumption that the visiting dignitaries have retired for the evening. As the sun sets on the horizon, behind the sprouting wall of the restricted sector, the sentries stand erect, bronze trophies on a floating mantle serving the abject vanity of a self-proclaimed prophet. The disdain she harbors for the Pramam's arrogance momentarily detracts her attention from the job and impedes her ability to improvise an efficient and invisible approach from her revealing position at the Central Core drop. Based on her recollection, a duct hangs underneath the footbridge and connects the main corridor to the entrance, but she is unsure as to whether they are also surveying the access panel to the submerged levels of the building.

The slight hum of the hovertrain arriving from the north allows Nathruyu but a few minutes to co-ordinate her descent with the passenger grab. Pressed for time, she targets the operative nearest to her, examines his uniform carefully, and notes a series of cleverly disguised sensors, looking more akin to decorative buttons than frequency transponders. The entire brigade is linked as one, probably in response to the isolated attacks on the university property. Were she to subdue an unlucky guard en route to the residences, the others would be immediately hailed to the crime scene; therefore, her usual tactic of disabling human obstacles, if warranted of course, would clearly be ineffective against the solid blockade. Alternatively, a diversion that pierces their fence formation may succeed in ushering her through the facade, but once indoors, the element of surprise might not be guaranteed, for she possesses no intelligence on the security forces assigned to the cavernous conference room. Her best option is to infiltrate from below and borrow a secluded nook, where she can secretly scour the interior squad for weaknesses.

The red circles on the platform light up, announcing the imminent boarding. While the commuters hustle to assert their claim on a marker, she readies her emitter for the oncoming shuffle, and, just as the cylindrical shoots at the bottom of the craft materialize, she drops into the subsurface passageways and seals the breach above her. The footsteps reflecting off the sides and ceiling invade her nerves like a thousand termites, for they imply that he must have indeed found evidence of a trespass at Osler Hall. To carve a slit out of the structure for easy entry then fuse it behind her would have been a complete bore, but encountering a protector at the site, and reinforcements instantly available from a quick pat on his lapel, makes the intrusion eminently more entertaining.

As the systematic vibrations emanating from around the bend continue, the shivers that tickle her spine dissipate. Acrobatic stealth still graces her. The delicate landing has afforded her a perfect vantage point from which to analyze the lone opponent, and the regular influx of carriers flying above provides cyclical breaks in the stillness, and creates a suitable cover for her chosen distraction. Arresting her breath between bursts of boisterous activity, she calms her inner voice and maps the methodical trudging of her mark. She counts the thuds interrupting the silence, records the amplitude of the noise, and calculates the matrix of dead space interlacing the rumbles up top.

Once he is beyond her visual field from across the channel and is patrolling the tunnels attached to the perimeter scaffolds, she turns the corner, veiled by the commotion overhead, and swiftly sneaks toward the fortified opening. During the next discordant interlude which drowns the boots robotically treading away from her, she rifts through the barrier, and promptly reseals it. Since the acoustics in the shafts bounce sound from here to there and muddle its origin, her sequence of well-timed advances progresses, undiscovered.

Nathruyu squirms her way along the sombre narrow tubes on the generator level and trails her ears to a hushed dialog drifting down from the south wing. As it was at the triple helix, her supple limbs ease her up the spiral air conduits buried in the staircase and into the mezzanine grid, where she hesitates. Beneath her crowded refuge in the palatial foyer presides an additional GMU unit, poised to swarm and apprehend. As the murmurs meander the ductwork, she spreads her body more thinly, so as to avoid dotting her passage with bulges, and outstretches her arms to funnel her slender frame in the direction of the chatter. The identity of the whisperers confirmed, she stops at a grate on the outside wall and witnesses a photographic account of the ongoing discussion.

The question is unambiguous and blunt. Nathruyu detects impatience in the Pramam's tone as their father stammers through a litany of detail concerning the latest transgressions. Was he not responsible for the URA? How could such a blatant disregard for protocol have taken place under his very leadership? The fierce reprimand eventually tapers, and the subject migrates to the whereabouts of the twins, as Vincent endeavors to con his superior with a fabricated story. Rather than admit that they have escaped his vigil, he declares that he has resettled them elsewhere, at a location where she would not find them. From her calf-height peephole, she cannot discern any facial cues that either support or deny the Pramam's acceptance, but the subtle clue from a mysterious third party, discreetly tapping his toes, suggests that someone important may doubt his honesty.

As Vincent's feet turn to leave, she squeezes backwards, selects an obscured recess of the gallery to emerge from, and shadows him past the glassed-in rooftop courtyard that crowns the colossal mural on the lower tier and on to the far end of the north block. Her heartbeat hastens as she assumes a shrouded setting inside the bulky window coverings across the hall from his quarters. He is not alone. The advisor and his faithful hounds, attentively sitting at the pedestal of a crystal fountain and angling their ears in her direction, have trapped him first. With a beam of sweat strung from his brow, Vincent informs him that the siblings have, in fact, disappeared.

An eruption of sensations consumes her as her faculties abandon the present, and all that she hears are these biting words.

"You lie."

"No."

"Yes. Tell me where they are. She must not find them first."

"They left at dawn after our last meeting. Please. I beg of you. It's the truth."

"We shall see. My loyal friends possess a special talent for sniffing out deceit."

"Ahhhhhhhhh. I know nothing. Please. Stop. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh."

"Perhaps, but your lack of wisdom seals your fate. Come, my friends. We must leave him."