Second Dominion (Fourth Age)
Aurean Cycle no. 460 of the Macbeth dynasty, reign of Aldric II
Fourth Quadrant, Derra Prime
The city districts of the planet were always shrouded in cloudy weather. Conditions were strange: the air was dry, yet the sun was nowhere to be seen in the sky, and it was fairly warm.
"Here are the papers," said one of the boss's men, handing Law a tablet with various fake IDs that were supposed to get him through customs.
"Lorne… Freelance? Are you for real?" he asked, arching an eyebrow. "Might as well call me 'Johnny Crime.'"
"Beats me, I didn't make it," the other shrugged. "Anyway, the package is already in the double-bottom of the trunk. Remember, it's routine. Don't look nervous, yadda yadda."
Law got up from the hovercar's hood and stretched. "I'll be a ray of sunshine."
He climbed into the vehicle and put his hands on the wheel. The other leaned on the door and eyed his cybernetic left arm. "Oh, and here's a tip: use the pay to get yourself a synthetic arm. You wouldn't wanna look like a criminal."
They both chuckled.
--
On the city's horizon stood the Zenith Tower, one of ZenithCorp's buildings scattered across the Fourth Quadrant, all answering to the Orb, the corporation's headquarters.
Roughly seven thousand lumes tall, the tower had various access points in every sector, strictly monitored by customs. Law's goal was to enter the tower without a hitch and hand the package off to someone else; after that, it wouldn't be his jurisdiction anymore.
The checkpoints wound in a line along a magnetic walkway spiraling up toward the tower. You couldn't see much through the smoked glass, but now and then a vertical transport or a drone would sweep the area with the typical annoying buzz of Zenith patrols.
Law kept one hand on the wheel and the other on his knee. The cyber arm throbbed faintly—a sign something in the sensory feedback was going wrong. As always. A synthetic arm wouldn't be bad, indeed.
"Don't look nervous," the guy had said. Yeah, right. More than nervous, Law felt scrutinized. The cameras moved with his vehicle like cold-blooded predators.
Yeah, I know, guys. I could repaint it a different color. Who the fuck drives a brown car? Do I also have to own the bad taste? Do I have to chuckle nervously at the customs banter? What a pain.
An annoying beep signaled it was his turn.
"Documentation, please," said a woman in a pearl-gray and yellow ZenithCorp uniform, transparent mask over her face. She read from a wrist display and didn't even bother to look up.
Law passed the tablet. Slowly, without seeming too cooperative. Everyone knew showing a bit of annoyance implied you had nothing to hide. The woman took it with even greater annoyance. She obviously had nothing to hide; the frustration came from being on shift for eight hours. The fake profile flashed across her retinas: Lorne Freelance.
Oh god… Law face-palmed in his mind. He did his best to keep a straight face, which turned out harder than expected.
The profile claimed he was a, guess what, frelance transporter… authorized in sector 4-C, low-level clearance. Everything apparently in order. The woman seemed to grimace behind the mask, but said nothing. Probably at the name.
"Biometric check, please," she said, almost automatically.
Law placed his biological arm on the scanner.
There was a blip. Then another. Then a higher-pitched tone. The woman raised an eyebrow.
"Have you registered that prosthesis?"
Crap, the prosthesis. By law, mechanical prosthetics (like the cyber arm) had to be registered in the biometric profile as special extracorporeal modifications. Synthetic limbs didn't count, since they perfectly emulated the body's biology. And in Mr. Freelance's profile, there was no certification for any installed cyber arm.
The woman turned to the two agents behind her.
"Irregular registration. Extracorporeal modification not declared on profile. Protocol code: thirty-nine G, medium risk. Call the supervisor."
Law smirked—the look of someone who already knows the verdict. "You're telling me I'm not getting through?"
"For now, we're telling you to step out of the vehicle."
"Alright, but if you touch the trunk, you'd technically be violating the right to fiduciary transport, section six of the Intersector Trade Treaty. Or maybe it's article four? Whatever. Your call—arrest's included in the package anyway, right?"
No one laughed.
"Step out."
--
One thing you had to give the corporations: they took themselves seriously. It was their bold duty to stand out in quality from all the smaller outfits. In fact, the cell was immaculate—polished metal and disinfected surfaces. The neon lights pulsed every five seconds, as if to remind detainees that boredom was as monitored as violations.
Mr. Freelance sat on the edge of the bench, resting his head on his only remaining hand (they had removed the cyber arm). Every so often a drone or patrol passed in front of the reinforced glass door, checking that no one was doing anything. Not that there was anything to do. That was the prevailing feeling: eternal nothingness and constant surveillance.
Law sighed and set his head on the table. He stayed like that for an indeterminate amount of time when a metallic voice suddenly chirped: "Additional detainee incoming. Any physical altercations will be sanctioned."
What the hell, I'm not a savage.
The door opened with a hiss of pressure. Law didn't move. Then he saw the young man shoved inside: leather coat far too large, glasses cracked on one side, long ocher hair, tanned skin, and a calm expression. He smiled amicably at his new cellmate, the kind of person who has no trouble breaking the ice.
Law grunted in response. The other sat on the opposite side of the table. Silence reigned for a while, until Law spoke out of embarrassment.
"Uh… any idea how long we'll be here?"
The other shrugged. "Smuggling?"
"Yeah. You?"
"Same here. Let me guess: a double-bottom, a fake ID, a hardly believable name?"
"'Freelance,'" Law enunciated with disgust.
The other laughed heartily. "Let's see… did Orren 'Three Faces' hand it to you?"
Law straightened abruptly. "Wait—you too?"
The young man shrugged again. "So he hired a nice diversion. Took you, had you handle the fake load while the real cargo was safe elsewhere. Shame."
Law frowned. "And how do you know that?"
"Because I handled the real cargo."
"…"
Law leaned back and sank into the chair.
"And that?" the other asked, noticing his left stump.
"Who the hell remembers the prosthetics regulations?"
He smirked. "How'd you lose it? The real arm, I mean."
"…A sheet-metal accident," Law deflected.
Truth was, he had no idea.
--
Hours had passed, and the two detainees were melting from boredom.
"…You play dry goal?" the friendly young man asked.
"Mm. What's at stake?" Law replied.
"Two shots each. First to score gets the first question."
Law formed a ring with his fingers in front of his nose, and the other readied a paper ball.
Swish. In.
"My first shot," he grinned. "How did you lose the arm?"
Law shrugged. "Told you. Sheet metal."
"Nasty…" the other said, already lining up the second throw. This time he missed—too far right. The ball bounced off the metal wall and rolled under the table.
"Performance anxiety?" Law quipped.
The young man smiled as he set up his "goal." Law flicked the wad of paper casually and scored. The other raised his eyebrows, impressed. "And with your non-dominant hand…"
"I'm ambidextrous," Law replied. "Oh, right—what's your name?"
"Amarel Sai. And you, Mr. Freelancer?"
"Score, and I'll tell you." Law sank the second shot with ease. "How'd they catch you?"
A pause. Amarel stared at the ceiling for a moment, embarrassed.
"There was this problem… encrypted route code, triple signature, everything in order, you know… except it turned out one of the signatories had been dead for two weeks."
Law narrowed his eyes.
"An old corrupt customs officer from Vega Cygna," Amarel went on. "He was my safe conduit, but apparently he tripped over something bigger."
"Or someone."
"Yeah, that is possible. So when I crossed the gate, the code deactivated."
"And the cargo?"
Amarel smiled. "Score, and I'll tell you." He tossed his paper ball and scored. "So—your name?"
"Law. Just Law."
Amarel nodded and threw again. Scored again. "Where are you from?"
A brief silence. "…You wouldn't know it," Law murmured.
"Try me. I like to read," Amarel challenged.
"…Toa. Fourth Quadrant."
Amarel tilted his head. "Wasn't it destroyed?"
"…"
"Okay… your turn."
Law shot again and scored without trouble. "Back to the earlier question. The real cargo?"
"It's still en route, if no one has touched it. But the tracker is off now. I don't know exactly what it was. It burned if you touched it and vibrated if you left it alone."
"Oh, a microwave," Law joked. He shot again. Scored again. "And where are you from?"
"Solstice," Amarel replied. "Fourth Quadrant as well."
They kept going for a while, trading increasingly silly questions. Neither had any intention of revealing their past or anything else.
When the game ended, Amarel pulled a small tablet from his jacket pocket.
"What…?"
Amarel shrugged. "It's my e-reader."
"?"
"I told you. I like to read."
"No, I heard you, I mean how the fuck did you not get that confiscated…?" Law asked, almost indignant.
Amarel smirked and shrugged again, then spent the next half hour reading from the device.
Suddenly the cell's glass door snapped open. No alarm or siren, just the impatient figure of an officer in Zenith Corp uniform (same color scheme as security, but a much more elegant cut), flanked by two armed guards. He wore orange half-moon glasses—a rare stylistic flourish on Derra Prime; it seemed the only sign of individuality he had left.
"You," he clipped. "You've been pulled. Released by higher order."
Law snorted. "And me? Did I win the prisoner lottery too?"
The man shot him a bored look. "No, Mr. Freelance. Not you."
Law shook his head.
Amarel rose calmly, smiled at Law, and disappeared through the door.
A few minutes later, the corridor lights flickered. Then went out. Silence.
Then a hum.
Then hell.
A muffled explosion shook the structure. From above, a panel fell and shattered a few steps from the cell. There were screams, shots. Security drones streaked by on fire, spinning out of control. A glitched alarm began to trill, repeating only the first two notes: "ATT— ATT— ATT—".
Law stood and searched the cell for anything sharp or heavy. Nothing. Then he remembered. He moved discreetly to the door, peeked out, and when he made sure no one was looking, shoved the door sideways. With a blunt thud, he forced it and got out.
He stepped into the corridor. Smoke. Screams. Alternating red and green emergency lights. He saw two guards on the ground: one alive, the other not. He picked up the latter's pistol.
"Thanks."
A drone swooped in front of him. Law shot it before thinking. The drone burst in a shower of sparks. Another siren kicked in—this time a real one.
The same metallic voice declared:
"Protocol Gamma. Evacuate all personnel. Subjects escaped. Threat level: 2."
Level 2? So someone had made quite a mess. Not him. Not yet.
I don't think tossing paper balls is that serious.
He was about to run toward wherever looked like an "exit," but then glanced at his stump.
Crap, right—the arm.
For the next half hour, Law went up and down stairs blindly searching for a room, dropping guards and drones along the way, but nothing. The building was enormous—it would take forever.
He returned to the earlier corridor, disoriented and glum.
"Looking for this?"
Law turned and saw him.
Amarel was leaning against a wall with a beer in hand (a real one, with a pop-off cap), a small briefcase, and a cyber arm at his feet.
Law frowned. Amarel offered the other beer. He took it.
"Was that you who kicked all this off…?"
"Well, I needed an exit. And so did you, apparently."
Law smiled.
--
They had taken back the brown hovercar and were cruising away from the Zenith Tower in peace.
"…So, remember the e-reader?" Amarel continued.
"Yeah."
"I used it to contact one of my people—the gentleman in uniform who collected me earlier."
Law whistled. "I see… and the whole mess at the tower?"
Amarel shrugged. "Orren and his crew had planted bombs in the tower's cooling ducts a while back. For emergencies, you know. Once I was out, I could access the detonators."
"Wow," Law said. While driving and listening, he was fiddling with the car's player—he wanted to put on his playlist.
"Ah, there we go. Check this out." Law looked proudly at Amarel as an aggressive rap track kicked in.
I'm slashing y'all motherfuckers,
I'm beheading y'all motherfuckers
"Mhm, mhm…" The driver bobbed his head up and down, enjoying the song and mumbling along to the bars.
Amarel just sat there, confused, silent, and judging him with his eyes.
--
They found themselves on a dusty rooftop above a half-empty industrial district, neon lights filtering through the smoke of Derra Prime's night. Below, a ZC convoy in transit. White noise.
Amarel sat on the edge with his feet dangling. Law was smoking something that tasted like plastic and synthetic tobacco.
"What now?" Law asked.
"Honestly? No idea," Amarel replied. "You'll want to make Orren pay, I suppose."
"Damn right."
Amarel smiled slightly. "Well, I've got nothing against him. Ending up inside was my mistake."
"So we're done?"
"…However, I'm interested in that cargo," Amarel continued.
"The microwave?" Law flicked away whatever he'd been smoking.
Amarel smirked. "Exactly that. It's worth as much as a high-end ship, at least…"
"I'm listening."
"…And like I said, I don't know precisely what it is. But from the way they talked, it's something important. If you looked closely, the container had the Futura logo scraped off."
"Ah, that's why you said it seemed alive. They cook weird stuff."
Amarel nodded. "I'd like to see how much I can get for it. And it's a nice indirect way to make him pay, don't you think?"
Law shrugged. "Well. If you want to take it, I owe you a hand."
The other beamed. "Oh right, you definitely owe me a hand."