Zero World (21 page)

Instead she’d made a gigantic mess of things, left the South’s espionage apparatus in Combra in tatters, and brought home a mystery man who might in fact be a carefully placed weapon.

“Meiki Sonbo.” She whispered her own name, her real one, to the sprawling skyline of Dimont. She hadn’t used the name in years, hadn’t even realized she’d given Captain Liso her assumed identity. It had become automatic to do so.

A long sigh escaped her lips. She’d have to forget everything, she thought, but only after they were done asking questions of Melni Tavan. Until then, she decided, she would keep the name, if only for herself. If only to remember.

Once in harbor she was transferred again, this time to a small craft of nondescript coloration and marking. She took a seat in a common room just behind the control area and avoided eye contact with the plain-clothed crew. Whether Caswell was aboard, or if they planned to question him on the warship, she had no idea. They took his bag from her before she left. She wondered what they’d make of the strange assortment of supplies inside.

Soon the little craft turned and weaved away from the huge military ship and began the winding journey upstream. In the hour that followed Melni did her best to clear her mind of the future. She replayed the events of the past week, focused herself on the task of remembering. They would want it all, she knew, and she saw no reason to hide anything. Except, perhaps, for Caswell’s “ride home.” And the needler tube concealed in her clothing. And the bracelet. Melni resolved to keep those things to herself until the situation, and the South’s intentions, became clearer. Betrayal or not, she knew on a level beneath conscious thought that something was not right here. She knew something else, too: Caswell had been truthful with her, right from the very beginning. Except for claiming he was a Hollow Man, and even that he took back.

Which meant only one thing: Valix was the liar here.

Riverswidth, as the name suggested, spanned the width of the Riv Dimont—the river of two hills—which bisected the capital city, Dimont. Calm brown waters flowed at a languid pace below the whitestone archways of the ancient bridge. A hundred feet wide and more than a thousand long, the original span served as a pedestrian walkway between two early nation-states. Eventually traders realized neither state could claim ownership of the bridge itself, and therefore laws regarding street commerce did not apply. Unification eventually nullified these legal loopholes, but the market had become so entrenched and seedy that the new post-Desolation Presidium had ordered it completely torn down. Replacing the old shanty storefronts were modern offices, as well as meeting halls, and even the estates of the Presidium. Riverswidth went from a treacherous, murder-soaked black market to the seat of military and intelligence power for the Unified South in less than a decade.

Melni watched the river-spanning compound glide toward her and fought back tears. She loved this place. Not just Riverswidth but all of it—the city, the people, the memories. Not a day had passed in Combra that she hadn’t dreamed of returning. Yet for all her long-term planning and analysis of her life, she never saw herself returning here a disgrace, a failure.

She stared at the hundreds of windows that faced the sea and wondered how many bureaucrats were gazing down upon her now, mentally hanging her up to blame for the brink of war upon which all of Gartien now stood.

A cool shudder rippled through her as the little watercraft slid beneath the walls of Riverswidth and up to one of the dark, slimy private docks below the complex. The wooden structures were fairly new, bolted on to the original stone columns that supported the massive structure above. A pang of latent grief for Old Gartien coursed through Melni as she studied these columns. The bottom ten feet were colored differently than the rest. Once they’d been under the river’s surface, only to be exposed later when the planet cooled in the
aftermath of the Desolation. All that water, now packed as ice on either pole.

Four armed women escorted her up a slippery stepwell and into the bowels of the South’s intelligence headquarters. Almost everyone she passed reminded her of Caswell, with narrow eyes and a median complexion. Their eyes were almost all light blue, however, in stark contrast to Caswell’s near-black. She could feel those ice-blue stares slide over her, instantly marking her for what she was: not native. A
desoa.
Melni had grown used to being in the North, where her pale skin and purple eyes, while not anything like the native Northerner’s cham-colored skin and amber eyes, was at least considered exotic rather than some kind of defect.

To her surprise she was not interrogated, nor even questioned. Not even a perfunctory debriefing. The escort led her to the property office, where her personal effects were handed to her in a sealed paper bag. Things she’d had on her the day she’d departed for the long, convoluted journey to Combra. The clothes she’d had on. Her backpurse. Keys to a tiny home on the city’s eastern edge. A simple silver necklace with a charm she’d received on her firstwords.

“Am I being dismissed?” she asked those around her. Blank faces looked back. One of them shrugged.

The property master regarded her over the rims of his wire-frame glasses. “There is a carrier waiting for you at the low end. House arrest, until this is sorted. That is the word that came down, anyway,” he said, his gaze darting upward at the last to imply the Situation Room on the top floor directly above them. “These four will remain with you, and someone from Situations will be in contact if and when the need arises.”

The members of her escort did not look especially happy about their assignment.

“But I have—”

“That is all I know, Agent,” the man said. He went back to his paperwork.

Melni sighed. “My house is too small for five.”

“Which is why,” he said without glancing up, “you will be staying at the Hotel International.”

It was a state-owned hotel on the coast, primarily used for visiting politicians and their staff. The hotel was well appointed, with great views of Flat Bay and the ocean beyond. Every room was monitored, every word recorded. It was better than a prison cell, but only just. Wondering when she’d be allowed to visit her own home, or seek out her sister, Melni scribbled her signature for the sack of items and followed her new family out into the middle span of the old bridge, which served as a walkway from the northern High End to the southern Low End.

A reinforced cruiser awaited her, in the sand coloration of the Army. Melni spent the drive along the edge of Riv Dimont watching her true home blur past. For all her internal complaining while in Combra, it somehow seemed more like home to her now than this place. So much color here, so much noise. It smelled terrible. Kids in filthy rags ran up and down the narrow, crowded streets. Almost everyone was on foot. Exposed pipes and the occasional power line crisscrossed above. Compared to the gleaming world Valix was building, this place felt half a world and half a century away. Finally the squeaky old vehicle turned and dropped into the maze of hundred-year-old apartment towers and street-level shops that made up most of the city.

The Sun blinded and baked relentlessly. No one seemed in a hurry to get anywhere, or happy with the prospect of facing another day. Errand runners dawdled along on their signature white bicycles.

By the time the carrier thundered up to the Hotel International’s staff entrance her shirt was soaked with sweat and her mood as sour as Combran grapes. A porter greeted them and, after being momentarily flustered by her
desoa
looks and her four armed escorts, led Melni to a rather incredible suite of rooms on the top floor overlooking the ocean. To her at least it seemed the type of place a head of state would be afforded, and for a moment her mood brightened.
Perhaps she was not the pariah after all. This thought lasted until the sober realization that her four new best friends would be staying here with her, with the bedroom assigned to Melni at the back farthest from the exit. And the room, so high up, offered zero chance of escape by scaling the outside wall.

Melni decided to make the most of it. She threw open the windows to let in the sweet ocean air, heat be damned, then went to the communal lav. After a long shower, first hot then cold, she tapped hospitality and ordered lunch: eggs fried with sea salt, a basket of toasted brown bread with seasonal jam, leaf salad dusted with tree nuts, plus juice and a whole pot of strong, spicy cham. Cuisine shunned by every mealhouse in Combra on principle.

She ate slowly, sipped her cham on the balcony to the concert of waves crashing below, then slept. The sheets were stiff and smelled of flowers, the mattress deep and soft in the Southern style. She’d missed that comfort while abroad, had complained about it to herself on countless occasions. Now she found the opposite to be the truth. The North, with their thin, stiff sleeping pads, had the better idea. This bed felt as if it wanted to swallow her.

Still, she found sleep.

Activity outside woke her at sunset. Wrapped in a soft robe, Melni moved to the balcony and simply watched and listened. The beach below was separated from the city by a long boardwalk. Hundreds of people strolled its length in the warm glow of the setting son. Couples arm in arm. Families with giggling children. The wealthy, here on the coast. Not a
desoa
among them, most likely. She wondered if their mood was in ignorance of the stand-off with the North, or because of it.

She sat on the balcony until her weariness returned. It didn’t take long. Melni stood and turned her back on the world. She went to the welcoming bed, lay down, and slept again. Wonderful, dreamless sleep. In the heat of the morning she’d kicked away her blankets and
robe, waking naked and sticky with sweat almost five hours later. Humidity and heat, she’d forgotten what a burden they could be. Funny how the nostalgic mind edited out such details.

Another shower, then she dressed in the spare clothing that had been in her bag. The service had washed it for her, thankfully. It was a simple, Southern-style outfit. She slipped Caswell’s “needler” tube back into her sock. Then she took his bracelet, far too loose on her own wrist, and hung it from the silver necklace they’d returned to her. The flat loop of strange metal hung just below her shoulder line, partially hidden by her blouse. It looked rather stylish, she thought. If anyone asked she’d claim it the latest fashion on Combra.

A knock at the door. The inner, bedroom door.

“Yes?” Melni prompted.

An older woman entered. Melni recognized her instantly. Rasa Clune, director of information for the entire Southern Alliance. A tall, stout woman with a pinched, hard Southerner’s face under a thin crop of silver hair.

“Agent Sonbo,” the woman said, using Melni’s real name. “It is time we talked in person.”

“Please, sit,” Melni said, gesturing to one of the two high-backed plush chairs in the welcoming room.

Clune had dismissed the four armed escorts to wait in the hallway outside. She wore a military uniform, flawlessly pressed and covered in decorations. The desert colors were a marked contrast to the deep crimson of the chair. Melni took the other seat, feeling suddenly underdressed in her pedestrian knee-length shorts with a very loose white blouse, decorated by an ornate red and gold sash diagonally across her midsection. A classic Southern style she hadn’t worn since the day she’d handed the outfit over to the property master before starting her mission.

Melni had seen Rasa Clune twice before: once on the day she
graduated into the information service, and once on the day she’d been selected for an underguise assignment across the Endless Sea. On both occasions the powerful woman had not even so much as made eye contact with her. Melni tried to recall what she knew of Clune. Thirty years of service to the alliance, the last ten of which in her present capacity. It was said she’d once worked in the field, but her classic Southern features likely meant assignments on this side of the crater line.

“I am sorry we could not let you go home,” Clune said. “Once this business is over you will be placed on the standard leave any returning covert agent receives; a full month. You shall be free to travel as you like. I have authorized your withheld salary to be deposited into your account, so if you wish anything while you are here just ask the hotel staff and they shall fetch it for you.”

Melni swallowed. “Gratitude,” she managed to say, picturing a swarm of agents picking through her house for any signs of treachery. There could be no other reason for keeping her from the place, or implying she’d have to purchase material items she required rather than having them brought from home.

“Is there anything you wish to request at this time?” Clune asked.

A breeze off the ocean stirred the drapes. Warm sunlight danced on the carpet between them. Melni found the heat of the South stifling suddenly. Rasa Clune looked perfectly comfortable despite her stiff, heavy outfit.

“I just want to work, Director. To help resolve this situation,” Melni said. “I feel responsible, though I’m not sure what I could have done differently.”

Stern ice-blue eyes peered out from between the narrow slits of Clune’s wizened, tired lids. Was that a hint of disgust there? The undercurrent of racism Melni hadn’t dealt with since leaving? An old, deep-seated worry welled up inside her, the idea that Melni was not truly one of
them
. And worse, now that she’d lived north of the Desolation, she might harbor empathy for the enemy.

“Well,” Clune said after a moment, “it turns out you can help us.”

Melni leaned forward, too eager and not caring. “Yes. Tell me, please. Anything.”

“This man you came south with…”

A tingle ran up Melni’s spine. She shivered. “Has he died?”

“He lives,” Clune said. “In and out of consciousness, but he lives.”

Melni nodded.

The leader of the South’s entire covert apparatus looked Melni up and down. Her gaze lingered, only slightly, on the bracelet Melni wore around her neck. “Do you believe you were ‘played,’ agent? That bringing him here was a carefully scripted trick? That he is in fact here to spy on us?”