The stairway ended several meters below in the corner of a large chamber. Dozens of people of all ages congregated and talked among themselves. Tables and booths lined the perimeter, each manned by a merchant, passively answering questions and to passers-by but not loudly attempting to busk or sell their goods. Several hallways led out of the room deeper into the complex, and people seemed to be coming and going from them unabated. He saw no signs of security or surveillance, and people seemed to move freely. As Clay had hoped, it appeared to be the black market Klein had spoken of. To him, that meant people who minded their own business but who were also constantly on guard for police action and would likely have a well-planned contingency and escape route planned should trouble arise.
He slowly walked the room, stopping by one of the hallways when he heard the distinct sound of music. It wasn’t the drab, generic music he had heard all over Notosia up to this point, but a soulful, almost mournful song, played on an organ-like instrument of some sort and sung by a beautiful female voice with a breathy, emotional tone in the contralto range. He could not make out the words, and the song quickly ended, met with an enthusiastic, if muted, round of applause from what sounded like thirty or forty people.
He continued pacing the room, studying the different booths. Most held remarkable works of art and craft in vibrant colors, each showing a bright spark of originality and creativity. Interestingly, that seemed to be the bulk of what was offered in the room—no contraband, no weapons, no exotic technology. He wondered if he hadn’t stumbled on was not a black market but instead, some type of artist colony.
One booth immediately caught his attention. A middle-aged man stood stoically behind a stack of books of various sizes. The bindings appeared to be makeshift, mostly wire and twine, some with hard covers and rings. The man watched the room but did nothing to call attention to himself.
Clay approached him slowly, fascinated with the collection. “Are those antique?”
“What?” the man asked, amazed. “No. Of course not.”
“May I?” Clay gestured to the pile.
The man smiled and held out his hands palm up. “Is there something that interests you? I can probably make a recommendation.”
“I’ve always been something of a student of history,” Clay said, then added, “Earth history, that is.”
The man smiled and pointed to a stack of books on the left edge of the table. “That one takes place in the mid-17th century. It deals with the adventures of a spy during the time of Louis XIV. I’m afraid it’s the only period piece I’ve ever written.”
Clay took the top book off the pile, seeing that they were all different, unique bindings of the same book. “You’re the author, then?”
The man appeared confused. “Yes, of course. I wrote all of these, twenty-four books in total, all of them completely different. Other people did the printing and bindings, so I’m afraid the quality is a bit inconsistent, but you’re holding one of the more durable ones.”
Clay examined the binding. It was thickly glued to a thick piece of either cardstock or flexible plastene. It was well-affixed and seemed as if it would stand up to quite a bit of wear and tear. Do you offer electronic copies? I would hate to damage a unique collector’s item like this by actually reading it.”
The man regarded clay for a moment. “You’re an off-worlder, aren’t you?”
Clay was pleased the man had picked up on the hint. “What makes you say that?”
“It’s an independent work, not registered through the Author’s Guild.” He looked conspiratorial. “A local would understand that an electronic copy would most likely find itself purged, or at least significantly altered by Mother Eye without a Guild approval registration.”
“So why not join the Guild then?”
The man rolled his eyes. “Why give them 20% of my profits for nothing? The type of stories I write aren’t mainstream enough to sell in any volume, so what little I would make probably wouldn’t even cover my membership dues. Everyone here is in the same position,” he said. “Authors, songwriters, artists, craftsmen, playwrights, vidmakers — we created this as sort of an underground haven for those with discriminating and eclectic tastes in art who want to think outside the constraints and safety of societal norms, so to speak.”
“Amazing,” Clay said, genuinely impressed and more than a little relieved that Notosia did have a thriving creative culture, if secretive, after all. He suddenly saw an ironic solution to one of his pending problems. “I am traveling light, however. Could you possibly ship this for me? I’d be happy to pay any costs.” he asked.
“Where to?”
“I hope to return to Earth in a few days. If you could send it to the General Delivery Kiosk on the Excipio Gate Station, I could pick it up on my way out of the system.”
The man beamed and offered to take the book from Clay. “I would be happy to do that for you,” he said.
“Excellent. What do I owe you?”
“Nothing,” the man held his hand up and shook his head. “It’s enough for me to know something I’ve written has made it off-world where it will be read and enjoyed by at least one person. Though, if you are so inclined and enjoy it, I would appreciate it if you would share it.”
Clay nodded. “I will, indeed. Thank you so much.” He rifled the tightly bound pages with his hand one last time and handed the book over.
#
A half-hour later, he found a table at a terrace café with a view of the aircar, took a seat, and ordered a pot of coffee from the hovering service drone. He was on his third cup of the sludge when he spotted Ness walk up the ramp towards her discarded vehicle. She appeared not to notice him as she opened the doors and inspected it.
“That autodoc did a great job fixing your leg,” he shouted. “Must’ve been a bitch climbing down from that rafter.”
Ness looked up and stared at him, expressionless for a long moment, then stood up and slowly walked over to where he was sitting. She had no noticeable limp and showed no discomfort. “I see she turned down your offer,” she said, gesturing a thumb toward the mess of glass and liquid in the passenger seat. “Sorry about your girlfriend. It’ll be an unpleasant end for her, but at least it saves you the trouble of killing her in cold blood. I’ll send you a bill for the cleaning.”
“Did you know she was Hei Gezi all along?”
Ness smirked. “Did she finally admit it? I had my suspicions, but it seemed a bit far-fetched. So, that kills two birds with one aneurysm.” She smiled wickedly. “Pity you lost Keraunos, or you’d be on your way home right now.”
Clay shrugged. “Well, I’m working on that.” He poured a second cup of coffee and gestured for her to sit.
“I’m sorry. Are we still pretending I work for you? It’s hard to tell.”
“No, Ness. I know you’re Cerberus.”
Ness appeared confused, almost hurt. It was as if she hadn’t considered it herself. For a moment, Clay thought he might have missed something, but then realized she was just processing her own truth and hypocrisy: Ness had told him everyone takes a side, but she didn’t realize that’s exactly what she had done as well. In her mind, she probably wasn’t a “Cerberus operative,” just someone loyal to a job and to herself, doing what she needed to survive.
“When did you finally figure it out?” she asked, nodding in acceptance.
“Cerberus already had people at the Starport monitoring our comms, and they knew I was bluffing on the storage locker. Halferne spotted them almost instantly, yet you didn’t? No, you’re too good not to have caught it. Just like you’re too good to miss every one of the shots you took at them with a sniper rifle.”
“I assume since you only gave me half the plan, you were on to me before that, however?”
Clay finished filling her cup, returned the carafe to its tray, and sat back. “Harba City is a big place, but Cerberus seemed to know where I was, as well as why I was there the entire time. You’re the only other person who knew the frequency of Karim’s tracker. You’re the only one who knew the plan was to get Ursza and Keraunos off-world, otherwise, they would have taken her right away. You needed me to confirm to you that she had the datarod on her and hadn’t hidden it somewhere.” Clay shook his head.
Ness frowned almost apologetically. “I suppose you’ll understand if I tell you, it wasn’t personal? I’m actually kind of fond of you, Clay.”
“You bought me a little time that night on the roof at Harba City when you played along with my idea to split up instead of knocking me out and taking the datarod, but I’m thinking your orders are pretty clear about bringing me in now to unlock the box containing the cipher.”
Ness shrugged. “I’ll admit, it was clever of you to seal the cipher with your own neural-lock, but since you gave it to me for safekeeping, it was only a matter of ensuring Keraunos was secured before you became expendable, just like your friend Ursza suggested.”
“And now that you have both, you’ve won.”
Ness winced, visibly uncomfortable. “You’re prepared to unlock the case for us?”
Clay frowned. “Not a chance.”
“Come on, Clay,” Ness rolled her eyes. “I hate to be the one to claim the upper hand before the deal is done, but I don’t see this ending well for you.”
“It’s not over yet,” Clay said confidently.
Ness hit a button on her wristband and nodded at Clay expectantly. He activated his ocular implant, which highlighted four snipers surrounding him from the upper levels of the residential complex.
“Goodnight, Clay,” Ness said, annoyed.
Clay felt something sharp strike his back between his shoulder blades, and his world instantly went dim.
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