I’ve been here a few days now and taken time to learn the routine, watched Frank a couple of nights in a row, even proven I’m worth keeping around. That was on a call-out during the second day; not an attack like the ones we’ve had in the city, but a typical use-of-tech alarm. A kid activating a telcom who didn’t realize what it was. Agents arrived at the same time as us. I took care of them while Harris scooped up the kid, none the wiser, and returned him to his mother. Excuse me, ma’am, your boy was wandering around like a lost puppy. Crisis averted. You’re welcome.
Not that I’m very welcome here. Apparently being a prisoner of the Collective makes one untrustworthy. The kid from the first night is skittish around me, his hand always resting on his gun. And Spinner, well, his constant glower is enough to let me know he’d rather I wasn’t here. Mostly though, everyone keeps their distance. Not that it’s a bad thing. Harris is the one exception and he talks incessantly, worse than Lilly. At least it keeps my mind off Mae, somewhat.
The days have been long. The hours filled with idle waiting by the port-all. Right now Spinner sits quietly, watching, taking in every tiny little thing. Watching Harris, watching the movement of people in and out of the warehouse, watching each roach that dares scurry across the floor, but mostly, he observes me. As if he’s just waiting for me to screw up. He’ll probably spit it out later, somehow use a trivial piece of crap against me.
I can’t just ask Frank for help or tell him about Nik, about the keys, about my need to find them both. Besides, I’m not sure I trust the people here either. Hell, I’m not sure I even trust Sam or Beau with knowledge of the Keys of the Patriarchs. The power’s too great, and most people are by nature greedy. Neither of them would have the balls to destroy the ancient devices, which is exactly what needs to happen.
Finally, shift’s over, so I make my way to bed. The bunkhouse, as they call it, resonates with snores and soft breathing, as it should be at eleven p.m. Even though I’m dog tired, sleep evades me. Mae plays on my mind, but I push thoughts of her and what’s happening back home aside time and again. After hours of lying quietly, I ease myself out of my swag and pad the half dozen steps to the door. Tonight’s as good a night as any to start chasing down my asshole brother. No one stirs when I move across the room.
For this to work, I need to remain under the radar. I can’t tell Frank about my brother and demand to use his facilities. To do that, I’d have to tell them who I am and then, well, the little trust I have would be lost, totally defeating the purpose. No one trusts the son of their enemy.
I sneak into the main part of the warehouse, my heart steady just like my breathing. I’ve been trained for this shit just like I’ve been trained as a weapon. The dim light of a single electric lamp flickers from the floor beside Frank, attracting a flock of bugs and moths that crawling across the concrete. Propped against the wall, Frank’s head lolls on his chest; a common pose for feigning sleep. This, though, is not an act. His eyelids don’t flutter, and his chest rises and falls imperceptibly. The shallow breathing of sleep, not the deep breathing people mistakenly associate with slumber. A little recon earlier means I already know this place only owns two sets of port bands. Lucky for me, Frank doesn’t wear either one of them now. Stupid move. If it were me, I’d have them on, ready to port out at any second.
Shoes in hand, I steal across the warehouse floor and straight to the computer. It’s already on Searcher—the program we use to detect tech usage. I flick my fingers over the mouse and click to bring up a list of recent activity. Today comes up blank, so I expand the search to the past week and two locations ping onto the screen, one of them the little boy Harris and I dealt with three days ago. Both instances have a green symbol indicating they’re resolved. I click on the other one to bring up the report. Collective attack: low scale, riot inducing, suspected political move, no fatalities. Yeah, you really need reinforcements up here, Frank.
I won’t find what I need by searching local, so I click on the icon to open the search to global. If Nik’s going after keys he’ll be chasing the myths. We both learned the same stories at school, heard them sprouted from our father as bedtime tales. It’s the obvious place to start, so I keep the time scale set to the past month and click global. It loads a list nine pages long. Forged founders. I glance down at Frank. What’s the quickest way to do this? Definitely most recent: I click order by date.
Searcher is a networked program set to all resistance scanners. Each base has its own locale to take care of, but some areas like Europe, or Greece—which is what I’m looking for now—mostly aren’t responded to. There just aren’t enough of us and our reach can’t spread that wide.
Bingo!
Two days ago, Macedonia.
No green arrow indicating a report. So the incident wasn’t resolved, probably not even investigated. I set the coordinates and steal another peek at Frank who’s still sleeping the sleep of the dead, or maybe the drunk judging by that whiskey bottle in his hand. He doesn’t stir. A pair of port bands rest near his bottle. His stupidity is my gain. I sneak closer and take them, then slip onto the port mat, tugging my boots on. Just to be safe, I set the time on my watch for an hour. Don’t want to risk any longer.
Four quick taps and I port.
My feet crash into the hard ground, sending up a puff of dust. I squint against the harsh setting sun, the sudden change from darkness to twilight almost blinding. Sloping hills surround the area, with not much to see apart from these eroding ruins. Otherwise it’s just plains stretching to the hills. It looks like nothing more than an archaeological dig. I’m on the right track. Nik’s the only one who would have ported here. The Collective would have no interest in ruins.
According to Searcher, this place is called Pella.
The ancient capital of Macedonia; that’s about as far as my knowledge extends. Maybe it ties in with one of the powers of ancient Greece. But why was Nik here? Perhaps an actual key, or a clue to its existence, its whereabouts? Surely any clue would be long buried or dead, together with the people who knew. Theras only knows where I should begin looking or even what to look for. Christ, I shouldn’t be cursing with a founder’s name, I’m not Collective.
I scrub a hand across my aching jaw, tense with frustration. This is stupid, so forged founder stupid. I need to find Nik, not follow some idiotic wild chase.
I walk around a cordoned-off area, examining broken columns, the skeleton of an ancient building. But I find no signs of a key. There’s not even a damn tourist or a history enthusiast to question, just deserted plains. What a damn waste of time.
The sun continues sinking below the western mountain and soon I won’t be able to see a thing. One more lap around the dig and I’m out of here. This time I weave in and out of the columns, looking for something, anything that’s a sign of . . . hell, I don’t even know.
I trail my fingers over the decaying stone. The texture gritty under my fingertips, feels like it’s turning to sand, only when I pull my hand away, no residue remains. Weaving through columns that are much like the pillars used in Collective architecture, I consider the theory that we descended from the ancient Greeks.
I turn the corner, my fingers brushing over a tall pillar—the most intact of them all.
It moves.
Holy hell. A sudden yank of my hand back and the part I was touching falls to the ground leaving a perfect hole. With a flinch, I jump back, but only for a moment, before leaning in for a better look. The width of three fingers, and stretching well above my head, the hole is thin and long. What was in here? My finger slides over the edge of the perfectly smooth crevice; almost slippery, like glass. No normal stonecutting device could do that, not even a laser. It could only have been clarinium . . . Nik. But why? Nothing’s inside and there probably never was, the gap isn’t wide enough. I step back, squeezing my shoulder where he stabbed me.
Maybe it’s wide enough for a sword.
Cloak, shield, sword.
Shit, maybe he has found one of the patriarchal keys.