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“OF COURSE LALY WAS sending me, like I’m the only competent Tinkrala in the whole freaking Dome,” Padg muttered loudly on his way through the edges of Gantrytown, still the largest settlement in the Dome, at least until the new burrows and habs surrounding the ornamental lake and gardens at the centre of the massive space had a name. That was still under discussion. They certainly couldn’t call it Lakeside, since there already was one of those and the Under-folk who lived there were just the kind of Folks to avoid antagonising.
Finding the Jasmine Collective, as the former art rebels were now called, was not difficult. The scent of everything they did preceded them everywhere. The ominous smell of the jasmines was an undercurrent to the whole war, and it still made Padg shudder. He’d thought on this work-span, to grab a couple of ractas from a stall on the way. Partly as a welcoming opening gambit, but partly to sink his nose in.
Although the smell from the outside the containers was what he expected, Padg found the interior of the units smelled of oil and graphite and circuit board lacquer. Something whirred in the interior, there was so much going on inside the space, it gave Padg an Air-sense headache. So many of the Jasmine’s crazy sculptures, so many of them moving in different directions all at once. And it seemed the few bits that weren’t in motion were making a noise. Padg could hear chopping, the trickling of water into a bowl and fuzzy speaker static. He almost missed the different organic feel of the person standing to the side of the doorway as he walked in.
“Careful. ‘Synchronisation number seven’s got a long arm to it. Kinda swings out—there ya go!”
“Thanks,” said Padg as the arm swung out over his ducked head. “Racta?”
“Oh great, thanks. You’re that Tinkrala fella from the war, right? Podge? Pudge?”
“Padg. Fin, right?”
“Yup. What brings you down to our tin palace? Got a piece you’re interested in?”
“Not as such. More the Folk that’s making ‘em.”
“How flattering. No.”
“Pardon?”
“I suspect you’re about to ask me to do something and the answer is, no.”
“Oh-kay, er- how do you know what your answer is, if you don’t know what I’m asking?”
“Because, whatever it is, is going to require me leaving them alone and I don’t want to do that. Ever again.”
Padg chewed the inside of his lip. He figured he wasn’t the only one to be scarred by the war. He couldn’t blame anyone else for feeling the same way. He leaned back against the door of the container and tried to focus his Air-sense on what was going on.
“They’re... impressive.”
“Hmm. Synchro needs some oiling. He’s got a limp in that arm. I should power him down.” Fin puttered over towards the centre of the largest sculpture, ducking on the way, and tinkered at its centre. Slowly the machine wound down. “There you go fella, you have a rest”.
Padg swirled his racta dregs thoughtfully, “Why do you make them?”
Grinding noises of some hand-cranked tool issued from the belly of the creation, then the sharp-edged smell of lubricant from a squeaky can. Fin must’ve gone through jugs of the stuff, where was he getting it? Like most found things, oil was scarce, but unlike luxury found things, like toys or fabric, real mineral oil was essential and brewed or extracted plant replacements, never quite cut it with the real engineers. “I guess, I’ve got to? It’s what’s inside my head. My interpretation of the place, or how I feel about it.”
“How did you manage when the bureaucracy had restrictions?” The previous administration to the dome had been especially harsh at times. Especially where singing and creating were concerned. They feared the danger of ideas. They’d been right to. Somehow, in the war, the strange sculptures that the Jasmine Collective made had been an unlikely tipping point, when so much seemed so hopeless under the crushing weight of Rowle and her operatives. It sculpted all the things that people seemed to be thinking, touched a nerve and made Folks’ pain into form, scent and sound.
“It was difficult, I won’t lie.”
Padg tapped a finger on his lip, “Listen, can I be honest with you?”
“Yes? Weren’t you?”
“I was—but—"
“Hold this,” Fin proffered an object about the same size and shape as a trading tally-stick, but made of metal not wood. As Padg ran his fingers over it, he noted it had three holes through it, two close to each other one end and one on its own. “Sorry, go on.”
“I need someone to go and be a bit of a mole in the camp of the Grey Duchy—”
“And I said no.”
“I know, but hear me out. Yes, I need someone to go and see what they’re hiding but I thought about you for two reasons. One, you were such a pivotal force in the revolution, that you’d been seen as a friendly force—"
“Even though I’m a spy?”
Padg rolled on in hope, “But the main reason, I thought about you, is, I think that the thing that they’re hiding is—interesting.”
“Interesting how?”
“I don’t know, that’s the problem. Every time we’ve ever had to interact with the Grey Duchy Questioners it’s like they’ve got something going on...”
“Arrogance of an in-group?”
“No. Not exactly. Well, a little but, that’s not what I mean. Our lot are like that, but what I mean isn’t the same.”
“Okay...”
“There’s something about their initiates, the Questioners, like they know something we don’t?”
“Isn’t that what initiation is?”
“Yes. But it’s not that. I’m not explaining it very well.”
“No, you’re not.”
“There’s something else. And I guess I wanted someone that I could trust to check it out and who’d know what they’d found when they’d found it.”
“Widget?” said Fin.
“Pardon?”
“The thing you’re holding for me?”
“Oh, sorry,” Padg handed it over. “Will you do me a favour and think about it?”
“Then you’ll owe me a favour.”
“Well, yes.”
“I’ll think about it. You’ll hear from me.”
Padg considered himself dismissed but went straight back to the racta stall. Somehow, the whole interaction had proved more testing than he’d imagined, and he walked home on a meandering route back to the burrow. When he got there, there was a small bark note scribed in a blocky hand, I’m in. The bark smelled distinctly of jasmine.
