When I really need to think, I go to the armoury and hit metal for a few hours. It's a hold over from my original training as a metallurgist, and a peaceful, productive way to keep in shape. My swords and knives are unique and always in demand. Pain too, needs some work on her, she is a bit scarred and dinted from using her on the Great Demon.
Sign in and, amidst the buzz and clatter of the machines, pick my usual workshop , put down the bundle I have carried here, and fire up the forge. Shelves around the room hold all the tools and chemicals I need for blade working. The heavy, high security locker on the side wall, locked and keyed to my voice and implants only opens readily, revealing six swords in various stages of completion, from roughed out to finished blades awaiting their hilt bindings. Grab a half finished sabre and put it on the side of the forge to warm slowly. Some of the alloys I use don't take kindly to sudden heating in their untempered state. Pull out the hilt blank for it, a half formed dragon struggling to emerge from the raw metal, eye hollows glaring sightlessly. Set it to warm.
Pick up the finished one, the one with the metal hilt in the shape of a War Lych, slender extended wings forming the cross piece. Examine the blade critically, making sure it has not been distorted during the diamonding process. Almost perfect, just one small burr to polish out. Told Steve, the guy who runs the diamonder, that one of his clamps is off centre. Heft and swing it a few times to check the balance. Good. Clamp it in the padded clamps of the workbench and undo my bundle. Seven strips of tanned War Lych hide fall out, spilling over the floor like so many snakes. I'll bind the hilt of this one today. I finally know who this one is going to.
Whistling happily and tunelessly, I get my apron on. Ready to relax and fully think over the news Don Brent has privately sent to me.
* * *
Following James closely, Sergei courteously assists Seraphina down the twisting staircase. They are somewhere deep in the winding maze of Roman ruins that makes up most of the Flamino. Someone, over the centuries, has kept them in reasonably good repair, turning collapsed, rubble choked buildings into a network of poorly lit concealed tunnels and rooms, almost an underground city in its own right. James stops before an unremarkable door.
“Lady, this room is divided by a privacy screen. We will bring them in one at a time for you. They cannot hear you or see you unless you wish it, but you can see them easily.” He shrugs. “I wish there was another way, but most of them have only rudimentary implants to data mine and have been treated against chemical and hypnotic interrogation. We need you to read their minds and see what they know. Especially if they know where Gart and Tanekawa are.” There is a word for it in her tradition. Mind flaying. Morally repugnant, but sometimes necessary.
She nods slowly. “It may take some time. Some people naturally have good blocks against intrusion.” She sighs. “It goes against teaching to pry like this, but, in this case, I agree it is needed. Keep the recorders running, and if I need anything said to them I will, with your permission, insert the question into your mind for you to ask.”
“Of course, my Lady.” James unlocks the door with a hand gesture, and waves her into a well lit, comfortably furnished room. “Please make yourself comfortable while I arrange for the first prisoner to be brought in.”
“How did you get them out of the Free State and to here?” She asks, settling herself into a well padded armchair.
James waves his hand in Sergei's direction with a smile. “Ask him sometime. I am still not sure how he managed it! It has been a real education, working with the best.” She smiles back at both of them, then turns to face the other half of the room. Plain bare stone, harshly lit. The first prisoner is brought in, rather battered and bandaged after the conventional interrogation. She looks at him carefully. Thoughtfully. Closes her eyes and probes out with her mind. She starts to speak as the mind flaying begins.
* * *
Enrique sits perfectly still, ignoring the increasingly urgent requests for food, drink and the bathroom his body is sending. Concentrating too hard on the data he has been given to bother with small things like like that. He knows the feeling well, a chain of thought is about to come to completion. Get distracted now and it is gone, often forever. Follow the data. Watch the interactions. Fingers moving idly, automatically, over the keyboard, adding parameters, adjusting, modifying. The time aspect is the biggest problem, it matches in with no known aspect of the null-space theory equations. It almost seems as if …
Wait. Examine some of the fundamental assumptions. What if we take that constant and modify it like so. It gives us a duration of transit. So the constant is not a constant. It can be varied. To vary that in practice, one would need to …
Enrique's bladder, stressed beyond capacity, empties abruptly, soaking his trousers and filling the room with the faintly ammonia stink of urine. He doesn't even notice.
* * *
Luigi too, is working. New information on Greater Demons enters his library slowly as he transcribes the implant data, the forensic data from the corpse in the Vaticano and the personal impressions record Cat had sent him. Entries complete, he sets the library to collate the new data with the old. He came up short last time. It will not happen again if he can help it.
Glance at the clock and give a guilty start. The evening trade has been going for an hour, and he has left Marta to do all the work yet again. Gets stiffly to his feet and wends his way to the kitchen. A stranger is bustling round, preparing dishes with a rapidity and flair that only a true chef can appreciate. The stranger glances up. “About time. You are Luigi, no? Carlo, Don Brent's head chef. The Don sent me to give you a hand for these next few days. I need some pans washing, molto presto. It is busy tonight.”
Did a stranger really just delegate me to dishwasher in my own kitchen? Shrug and put on the apron. Well, stranger things have happened, these past few days.
* * *
Hans walks confidently through the door of the clinic, lightly carrying a small foamgel box, pad resting on top of it. Glance around. Nice place, understated and elegant. Comfortable sofas in reception, muted, restful colours, a couple of original paintings on the wall. Been some money spent here, and spent well, to give just the right message of tasteful success. The receptionist is also tastefully done. A high end body sculpting job if he ever saw one. He smiles at her.
“I need to see Doctor Jonas for a minute. Could you please tell him his package from Rio is here and he will have to sign for it personally.”
“Certainly, Sir” she smiles back. “The doctor is just finishing in surgery and will be with you in ten minutes. May I offer you a drink while you wait?”
“No, thank you. Maybe when you get off work?,” with a slight lift of the eyebrow. The old routines are still the best.
“Oh, my boss wouldn't like that!” she replies with a wink. As he carries on flirting with her, she leans across the reception desk towards him, meaning she cannot see the security monitors showing Rapid Reaction Force members surrounding the clinic and waiting, concealed, by each door and window. A door to her left opens and a well dressed, late fortyish man steps through into reception.
“You have something I need to sign for?” Impatiently.
“Yes, doctor. Please sign here.” Proffer the e-pad and, under its cover, press a button on his wrist. The doctor takes it and scribbles his signature.
“Thank you. Doctor Jonas, you are hereby under arrest for aiding and abetting enemies of the state.”
The doctor's face sags in horror as the RRF burst into the building.
* * *
This cast itches like hell. Laid up in bed, bored out of my mind. Time passing, each second taking a year, or so it feels. Pretty certain that clock is broken. Bruises are fading, but still ache all over, the bastards must have kicked and hit me dozens of times when they found I was conditioned against interrogation. At least my mind is clear again now. Door opens softly and a muscular goon wheels in a small table with a touchtyper and a player on it.
“The Don thought you might appreciate something to do to break the monotony of healing.” His voice is educated, faint hint of an East Coast accent. “They are interrogating some prisoners. The information is all stream of consciousness though and needs to be put into a coherent story. I will bring you each recording as they are completed.” He positions the table at a comfortable height, then leaves as silently as he entered.
Well, converting a disjointed monologue to a coherent story? Can do it that in my sleep. Fit fingers into the touchtyper. Good job I can use one of these with either hand. Hit play. Seraphina's voice – no wonder they want to keep this quiet. Listen carefully, fingers twitching as I make notes of important points. Play through five times, adding extra notes each time. Names, descriptions, locations, impressions, all noted. Final listen through. Got everything. Call up the first set of notes and start stringing them together. Shall do the same for each tape, then write a coherent report from the whole. Good to be working again. Outside the shadows grow long as the sun sets. Unnoticed now. This is just what the doctor ordered!
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