They were high-grade Suits; of a far higher grade than should be possible in Doranne—or the entirety of Level 3 even.
At Gringe's nonresponse, Germaine pressed again, "I keep close track of all inventory in Synthë sector, District Head. These Suits were never on record."
Then, Gringe looked at him. "Do you want to use them in saving Aliyah, or do you want to discard them and have no chance at doing so?"
Jebba's right hand said nothing back.
"Yeah, I thought so." The enormity of this little exchange did not escape Gringe. The compromise of his morals was already in effect, snowballing into him having to obscure the procurement of the Suits. However, he was determined to keep everyone else out of it. He alone would bear the consequences of his actions.
A notification came in through the Suit's built-in speakers. A message from Delayne: "I'm in." That was their cue. Gringe gave Germaine the signal and they began their ascent, crawling silently up the side of the wall. They were repeating the tactic used in ambushing Wilda just the previous day at Synthë sector but with the key change of being camouflaged.
There were lookouts now, as Gringe had expected; four geared-up guards patrolling this length of the wall. Heat sensors would have spotted him and Germaine instantly, except that the area outside the wall was too large to cover. Human sentries were the only option Wilda had, and human eyes were easily deceived.
On and on they climbed quietly, till they lay just below the lip of the wall. Then they waited.
The lookouts were more focused on chatter than their actual duty. One of them asked, speaking loudly over the winds, "Look at all that land. Think the world was just as shitty as it is now before it all went to shit and the Levels were built?"
Another replied, "Who knows? All we have is the history passed to us by the Founding Fathers. And we all know that that's bullshit."
The initial speaker laughed. "Don't let no Ministry people catch you saying that."
"Or what?" the other replied. She left her post and walked over to the one she was speaking with. "Even they don't believe half the shit that—"
At Gringe's signal, he and Germaine reached up, grabbed the two guards by their ankles, and yanked them downwards. The move was conducted so swiftly that the guards had no time to react until they were nothing but two specks below them headed for their demise, their screams gobbled up by the wind.
"Zain! Mariah!" one of the two guards remaining atop the wall barked, hurrying over to the spot his comrades had just disappeared from.
"Idiots," Germaine whispered, shaking his head as he snaked his arm up and pulled the arriving guard to the ground.
Gringe hauled himself up on top of the wall. The last guard was ready, lying in wait with her rifle aimed at Gringe. A second passed as they assessed each other. Then bullets roared forth from the guard's weapon, plinking—to the guard's horror—harmlessly off Gringe's suit.
By the time Germaine had pulled himself up to the top of the wall, the last guard was already disposed of by the District Head, and Gringe was checking his MiraLink. "Any word from Jebba?" he asked.
"Not yet. Praet, Whylan, and Scott are ahead of time though. They're waiting for us at the rendezvous spot." Gringe looked east towards the largest structure in Damij Sector: Damij headquarters—a sky-piercing tower ringed by giant walls, much like the layout of New Earth itself. He cocked his ear as if listening to the wind. "The gunfire has drawn more guards. They're headed this way already. We need to move."
***
She knew what it was. Clear as day and sure as night, Aliyah was aware of what had been constructed right before her eyes—a nearly trance-inducing display of masterful skill presented to her; a lone audience. And despite knowing what it was, what it would be used for, she could not help but literally weep in awe at the culmination of the last two hours of work from the old man in the apron and goggles. She could not remember when the tears had begun to fall, except that now—in the longing, silence succeeding the clamour of construction—she felt its slickness on her cheeks.
The old man sat at the edge of his worktable, sweat glistening across his forehead and forming dark circles around his armpits. Legs dangling in space over the floor, he gazed upon his creation with an air of such relaxing contentedness. Of such peaceful adoration. It was at this too that Aliyah wept.
A man beheld the object of her destruction, just wrought from his own hands, and the poignance in his appreciation of it moved her to weeping.
"Have you ever seen such art, such perfection?" a solemn voice whispered in her ear—and it wasn't Haylen's.
Aliyah was not even shocked. Or more accurately, she did not have it in her to be shocked. And more than that, she wanted to answer the question, with all her heart. "No, I haven't."
Wilda Damij walked around to Aliyah's front, saying, "To this day, I've never known a craftsman as good as Guillen here." She spared a look at the guillotine in all its gleaming brilliance, then looked over Aliyah's head. She ordered, "Come on, boys! Time to put this thing to the test."
Feet drummed behind Aliyah as two men strode past her, stopping by the guillotine. They bent, hefting the contraption by custom-built handles at the top of its base, and began to haul it out with considerable effort.
Haylen came over, undoing the straps that bound Aliyah to the chair. The guard did not say anything. It took some time, but soon she was done and Aliyah was unbound. Her muscles had gone stiff being imprisoned in one position for so long.