Chương 7: Bayork

The Diem lifted off, throwing a plume of dust across the launch platform. It climbed vertically above the island, the violet exhaust trail swallowed by cloud the moment the coordinates locked in. Lance buckled his harness. The interior was considerably less bare than the Pietas: five black seats to each side, each fitted with a belt, and a long darkened window running the length of the hull that let in more light than it should have. The Diem surged onto its plotted heading with a sound like the world moving aside.

The pressure on Lance's chest was sharp but brief, less catastrophic than the elevator Monica had introduced him to. The two were separated by one empty seat between them. She was entirely still, her head down, giving Lance no acknowledgment whatsoever. He had figured out why: he'd initially sat across the aisle, felt guilty about it, moved closer, and then stopped one seat short." No. Absolutely not. This distance is already pushing it."" He moved away again..." Jeanne thought, her expression unchanged.

"Three times... He must genuinely have a problem with me." The silence held. Then a robotic voice broke in, and a hatch opened in the fuselage floor.

"ESTIMATED ARRIVAL: SEVEN MINUTES — PREPARE FOR LANDING." A shaft of light rose from the opening and condensed into a three-dimensional map of the capital." Is this thing really working with dust and some energy from that mineral?"" Bayork, huh? Never thought I would be seeing the IV Sector again so soon. Maybe NOIR even has access to Alis!" He dangled his feet, smiling with his eyes closed, until a sharp robot voice echoed.

"This is a pre-registered message from Edvard. This is a briefing about the capital, since I figured neither of you had ever set foot within its boundaries." The robotic voice was sharp, but at least it wasn't as loud as the other. Jeanne's ear twitched as she straightened her back.

"First of all, the Bayork, also known as Sector IV, is divided into eight concentric rings called Boulevards, each narrowing toward the coast and the bridge to the Fifth and final sector of Andimica. The rings functioned as districts but are distinguished as much by their controlling families as by their geography. The first three belonged to my family, the Ross. The fourth is administered by Auxiliary Bishop Frank, answering directly to the Holy Empire of Termìe.

The Fifth and Sixth are currently Ruther Institute territory. The last two were held by the old Andimican nobility, the Craft family, of foreign origin, who had weathered several decades of misfortune, including the deaths of two of their most promising members, without losing their political grip." Jeanne and Lance nodded, strangely following the speech this time. Maybe the absence of their superior managed to create a less tense atmosphere.

"About the V Sector, well..." The recorded voice sighed, and Lance could strangely picture Mr. Ross scratching his beard.

"The V Sector is Alis, an island that had been developed as an extension of the IV Sector late in the Great War, a territorial push in search of mineral deposits and new naval yards to restore maritime dominance. It took its name from the Alis mine, where an enormous vein of Lambdite had been found."

"Lambdite? Isn't it that material that NOIR uses to power this ship?" Jeanne nodded, glancing at him.

"M-Monica told me that it's really precious and really h-hard to work with." They both watched each other for a second before following the briefing.

"The discovery had made the island extraordinarily wealthy and had marked the beginning of a second flowering for the Grand Republic of Andimica. Today, Alis was restricted to the nation's most significant families and houses in the Ruther Institute's government laboratories, facilities to which even NOIR fails to consistently gain access."

"Good luck with the mission, not that you will need it!" Another voice echoed in the recording, causing immediate distress to the poor Edvard, who had to cut the discourse short.

"THE GREY CARD CONTAINS YOUR DIRECTIONS TO THE OPERATIONAL BASE." The voice shouted, returning to its classic, mechanical, and distorted tone. The hologram rotated, showing street-level views. The marked route lit red, then seemed to migrate into the card in each of their breast pockets.

"Have you ever been to the capital?" Lance asked. The map had drawn Jeanne out of whatever she'd been sitting inside. She shook her head, then looked at him.

"You?" She was holding a slim black case with a groove pattern cut into the material, Kroonlijst inside.

"More or less. I only stayed for one delivery, a doctor on the First Boulevard, the outermost ring of the IV Sector."

"It was considerably brighter and louder than Sector I or II." He was remembering the large buildings, the white cathedral glimpsed from the hillside station where he'd waited for the return tram. The Diem stopped hard, throwing Lance against the empty seat beside him." Lucky me and that empty seat!" A compartment rose from the same hatch as the hologram, snapping open to reveal a white case marked with a red cross inside the standard NOIR emblem. The moment Lance reached for it, the case opened on its own.

Six syringes, each filled with a violet compound.

"SIX DOSES OF NOIR COMPOUND ISSUED FOR THIS MISSION — AGENTS ARE ADVISED NOT TO EXCEED TWO DOSES WITHIN TWENTY-FOUR HOURS OF A FREQUENCY OVERLOAD."" That must have been what Lucas was referring to in that notebook. An artificial Relic created to prevent Meta from abusing their powers. The whole list of ingredients was terrifying to look at..." The Diem set down on a reinforced concrete platform hidden deep in the forest encircling the capital.

Its Lambda reactors bent the light around the hull, and the craft landed without drawing notice. The engine noise faded to a low murmur before the doors opened and the adjustable stairs extended.

"Much warmer here than Dielmon." Lance slid down the black handrail.

"The clothes are still comfortable, though." Jeanne came down the steps holding her case. Both of them were wearing heavier clothes; Lance in a fitted black suit and a long blue zip-up sweater, his asymmetric windbreaker over everything. Jeanne, in her striped sweater and wide black velvet trousers, had a beige coat to the knee over her shoulders.

"Why not disguise your weapon? That black case will draw attention." Jeanne lowered her head.

"It... rem... inds me of when I used to... carry my m... other's easel... for paint... ing." The words broke apart in her mouth.

"It makes me... Nostalgic." Lance laughed, not mockingly, not with any edge. Jeanne looked at him, not sure what she'd said that was funny.

"Must be good," he said, "having something that reminds you of family. If it makes you feel better, keep it however you like." She watched him as she came down the last step." Sometimes he does look sad, despite smiling all the time." Every word he said had warmth in it somewhere, and underneath that, something was missing. Perhaps that was why they'd found each other easy.

A figure stepped out of the tree shadow, a man in a black jacket and tie, a small N embroidered on the right breast pocket, a black mask covering everything above his mouth. A faint suggestion of a beard on his square jaw.

"Mr. Ross informed us of your arrival." A brief bow, one arm extended. From behind him, a row of figures in identical dress, white half-masks covering their faces to the nose.

"We are NOIR auxiliary agents. We'll escort you to Fifth Boulevard." The first figure, a black mask with a circle painted on it, stepped forward. The group moved into the thickening forest.

"You may call me Round. I lead the company sent by Master Edvard."

"We're normally a private corps in the Ross family's employ." Round continued, keeping perfect posture beside Lance, careful not to block his stride.

"After our employer joined the Association, we followed as volunteers."

"So you're part of the Ross merchant group?" He asked. He'd been curious about the family for a while. Their name circulated constantly in the same papers as the Craft family, and while the gossip itself held no interest for him, certain older reports about Ross-funded post-war research institutes and various disappearances were another matter.

"They might lead me somewhere."

"We have served the family for decades, Master Klint." Round pressed the gilded brooch on his chest, a mermaid shape, with one hand.

"Don't call me Master—""My apologies, Messer Klint."

"Not that either."

"Sir Klint, then."

"No."

"I beg your pardon, Mist—" Lance embarrassingly pinched Round's lips closed, gently but firmly." With Arte calling me Signorino and Monica... Being just Monica, I'm gonna start acting crazy if I get another nickname!" He released the man's mouth. Round nodded in quiet apology"Just Lance..."

"Of course... Lance."

"How long have you been with NOIR?"

"Since the end of the Great War, roughly. We aren't Meta ourselves, but exposure to that mineral made us partially compatible with what Master Edvard calls the Hel." Round held Lance's gaze as he spoke; beneath the mask, the voice and the skin both placed him considerably older.

"Then you're not so different from most of the support staff!" Lance said, recalling what Hoku had told him on the way to the training room." Recessives, that's how they are called, right?" Round nodded, clearing his voice.

"Meta, whose Frequency faded over time. An uncommon phenomenon under ordinary conditions, but at NOIR, the Lambdite treatments could artificially maintain and amplify physical compatibility with the Hel, extending both strength and longevity. Sadly, this is just a patch against the strength of time."

"I was thirty years old when I still served the family directly. All of us wanted to undergo the procedure to stay at Master Edvard's side." Round's formal cadence softened at the edges. Lance put a hand on his shoulder.

"I thought that kind of loyalty existed only in old books."

"He was placed in our care when he was small. We were simply the staff of the auxiliary villa, but we genuinely enjoyed raising him into the man he is." The small lines on Round's face loosened, as if the memory were pulling them back toward an earlier version of him The row of masked butlers stepped aside, forming a corridor for the two recruits. Before them: four black automobiles, engines exposed, thick tyres, the kind that ran in Andimica's poorer sectors. From the rear of each car, a thin iron column rose.

The front was completely open to show the assembly of gears and cables constituting the engine block. At the center, a small red sphere sat enclosed in a series of iron gyroscopic rings." Even if they seem old, these models must have cost a fortune."

"Have either of you ridden in one?" A butler asked, opening the rear door"N-Never." Jeanne ran her fingers along the white upholstery as she settled in, setting her case down carefully. Round took the front seat. His back remained straight against the headrest.

"Any trouble?" Another butler, at the second car, directed the question at Lance, who was standing a few steps from the open door.

"None. None at all." He got in, closed the door, and found his seat. He was lying, and Round could see it in the mirror: a small rectangular glass mounted on the ridge above the windscreen. Lance had compressed himself against the right door, keeping as much distance from Jeanne as the seat geometry allowed.

She was looking left, at the view beginning to open through the trees: the walls of First Boulevard, and above them the tall spires of the cathedral, the rooflines, the small columns of smoke rising in the midday air. Layered colours, white walls, black roads, green copper roofs, and where the sun caught the upper stories, brief flashes of blue and red. Despite everything that the city had endured, Bayork had risen from the ashes into a gigantic assembly of structures and cultures."

Much more impressive from here than from the station hill." Lance shifted his attention upward. His efforts to maintain separation were failing quietly around every corner. Jeanne watched him. Lance was desperate to crush himself against the door to increase the distance. She turned pale at the funny sight of the boy, muttering some disgusting things to herself. Round watched the two of them through the mirror and kept the thought to himself, slightly smiling. A small pop from the engine.

Bright red fluid began moving through channels in the doors and bodywork. Then the iron ridge above the windscreen extended backward and connected with the rear, forming a low, squared roof. Window glass rose from the doors, locked into the overhead seams, and darkened, clear from the inside, opaque from the outside. Both cars pulled onto the asphalt, climbing the hill above the forest toward the capital. The sea was visible to the east, catching the midday sun in long shifting panels.

Gulls rose in dense flocks from the boats at the harbour below. Jeanne's face was against the glass; every time the road curved and the view returned, she made a sound. Lance found himself watching her more than the scenery. On a sharp bend, the car leaned, and Jeanne went with it. She ended up against him. She turned to apologize, but Lance had gone completely white. Eyes closed, body slack. She stared at him. He looked like a man who had been lightly bewitched.

Round's eyes had a hard time remaining neutral in the face of the scene. The machines stopped in front of the large checkpoint at the entrance to the Bayork Wall. The walls dated back to shortly after the end of the Great War and were built of a particular, but tremendously resistant mineral mixture. Their white colour stood out in contact with the light of the sun, taming their violent and imposing size. The Golden Gate was administered by a handful of guards in blue and green uniforms, the colours of Andimica.

On their side, a long silver sabre, and on the collar of their green jacket, there was a decoration denoting their rank. Lance glimpsed the guard who was communicating with the car. In front of them, three gold stars were embroidered on his uniform.

"Is that a Captain?" Lance murmured. The butlers showed the golden brooch on their chests. The guard lowered his cap and, with a slight nod, the rest of the troops let him open the gate. The white iron bars separated, allowing the NOIR group to pass. Not long after they were inside the capital, the gate closed with the same metallic sound. The Boulevards were connected by a dense network of internal roads, separated by similar gates but with a bluish colour and less official.

If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it. The street was very lively, with large crowds of people walking, children playing and screaming along the sidewalks, and various models of cars occupying the wide black roads. The laughter and chatter reminded Lance of his awakenings in Sector 0; a feeling of nostalgia gripped his chest, but he was soon shaken by the amazement of the palaces.

Elegant and colourful silhouettes stretched across the street, white streetlights crowned the roadsides, and intricate networks of black wires unravelled through the curves of the buildings. That was the style of the outermost ring.

"Much more to my liking... I don't like that much light around at night." Jeanne had her face glued to the window again, and Lance could briefly notice her look; her eyes were lit up and filled with childish joy. He smiled a little, relaxing and slowly letting himself be lulled by the movement of the car. A boy, no more than eight, held a thick encyclopedia volume roughly twice the size of his head.

"Mom mom! I will study a lot and become a doctor! So we can afford a nice mansion in the capital!" A woman with dark hair and dry, skeletal hands clapped for him. Her yellow eyes were intensely bright in the low light of the room. Her smile was effortful and real at the same time. Lance drifted through the dark until a cold touch began pulling him up.

"H-Hey. W-Wake up.... We've arrived." A woman's voice, close to his ear. A small pressure on his cheek. Jeanne was pressing one finger very gently into the side of his face, trying to find the least awkward possible way to wake him. He lifted his head, blinked the dream out of his eyes, and turned toward the source of the sound. Jeanne's face was several centimetres from his. Both of them looked away at the same moment. The doors opened in a hurry.

"We've arrived, Agents." A masked butler said. Lance stepped out, grateful for the air. The building in front of them was a long, curving white apartment block with small balconies on every window, and iron grilles painted the same pale colour as the facade. The roof was curved and tiled in a shade of orange that reminded Lance vaguely of a mandarin. The entrance doors were enormous, made of wood so dark it was nearly a shadow.

"The other apartments are a decoy, so don't worry about your neighbours," Round said from the car window.

"The entire building is at your disposal. We'll be nearby if you need us. Your full instructions are in the designated room." Both cars pulled away and were gone, and now the two recruits stood in front of the door.

"This feels just like the first time I visited my apartment!" He smiled, gazing at the building.

"Was it really... That exciting?" Jeanne glanced beyond his shoulder.

"My landlady told me I looked like I was on the first day of school! Not that I understand what it means." He laughed, touching his jacket in search of the key." Well... I didn't go to school either." She smiled, following him. The grey card pulsed faintly in Lance's pocket. Jeanne pointed to a keypad beside the door. He swiped the card against the black panel. The heavy wooden door unlocked with a dry click. Inside: white walls, a black-and-white checkered floor.

A staircase in the same white as the walls, the banister a warm orange identical to the roof. Room Two was easy to find. The interior was generous: a mezzanine level with a bed and fitted furniture, and darker wooden floors than those in their dormitory rooms. Lance scanned the space without stopping at the appliances or the blue-carpeted sofa. His attention went to the fireplace. White and black brick. He crossed to it, counted the irregular sequence, and pressed the second black stone.

It slid forward and dropped a neatly folded piece of paper. He opened it and read aloud." The meeting is tonight at 22: 30, at the villa of a Child's family member in Third Boulevard, section 23. An auction of contraband and illegal goods is believed to be in progress. Ordinarily, this would fall to the Internal Guard, but various artificial artifacts of Northest origin are expected to be present. Your clothing has been modified by Maverick. Synchronize it with your Frequency, and you can alter it at will.

Your cover identities are husband and wife. As the auction is anonymous, you are not required to disclose personal information." Lance folded the note and held it a moment. The last addition was Monica's work. He could tell by the handwriting. Jeanne blinked several times rapidly. She processed the final sentence. Then she sat down on the sofa, rolled onto her side, and stayed there.

"There's more." He said, smoothing the paper." How did Monica even get her handwriting onto this?"

"The grey card has been loaded with an Alir fund connected to NOIR's accounts. Acquire as many artifacts as possible." They looked at each other. Lance's expression was uncertain. Jeanne was behind two sofa cushions, a damp glint in her eyes.

"We should eat something..." He said, moving toward the kitchen. Jeanne surfaced from the cushions and followed with her eyes. He found an apron on a hook, tied it, and checked the ingredients: a loaf, tomatoes, and eggs. He began breaking the tomatoes down quickly, pressing them through a strainer for the sauce base. When it started to bubble, he dropped in the bread and eggs and covered the pot. He turned. Jeanne had one hand on her stomach.

When she noticed him looking, she coloured immediately, and a small involuntary noise came out. Lance turned back to the stove.

"Being hungry is normal. I'm not cooking just for myself." He heard her settle at the table. He turned around to find it already laid. She was looking at him from behind a mild flush, waiting.

"Thank... you." He said, still slightly startled by the speed." I know almost nothing about her abilities. Or what she can do." He turned off the heat." Her eyes dart around like crazy and flinch a lot, but she is absurdly fast and always alert..." Lance watched the taller-than-average girl, lean, without anything relevant about her. Just a beautiful woman." Well... She is gorgeous..." He kept the thought and said nothing, feeling a bit hotter than usual. He served the pot at the table.

The smell was lighter than what he'd cooked at the dormitory: delicate, clean, still enough to sharpen the appetite. With every spoonful, Jeanne's face opened a little more. Lance worked steadily to keep his attention on his bowl.

"W-Where did you learn to cook?" She asked, reaching carefully toward the pot. He slid his own plate forward and poured the remainder into it for her.

"Nowhere. I found iron barrels in the street, cleaned them, and burned wood inside. Some shops started giving me their offcuts for free, and I had time to fill, so I started. When I lived in Cael, my landlady taught me a little in her spare time." A faint, backward smile. She looked at him for a moment.

"I'm glad we... We... We're friends." She said, setting her trembling spoon down. He went slightly pink.

"And where does that come from?! Well... I feel the same, don't worry." He stood, collected both bowls, and moved them to the sink.

"There is still time until the auction. Maybe we can rest and come up with a plan later?" He hadn't considered the mezzanine until he'd said it. One bed. The shock was sufficient to cost him his balance. He went over the railing.

"LANCE!" Jeanne leaned over the edge. He was on the floor below with his thumb up.

"I'll sleep here." Hours passed. The sun went down. Both recruits came down the stairs dressed for the evening. Lance wore a beige sweater under a long black split jacket. Jeanne had a white shirt and a shorter blue jacket with yellow buttons.

"To keep things simple, you're mute, and I have a throat condition." He covered his face with a medical mask. They went down and out through the front door. The city at night was a different organism. Lights and sounds and smells from three directions at once, the temperature down sharply, the clothes adjusting with a subtle tightening that neither of them commented on. Jeanne had Kroonlijst's case attached to her side by a short chain. He had Lachesi under his sleeve, and Supplicium collapsed in his left pocket."

Remember that Lachesi is off-limits." He raised a hand, and a white taxi pulled over. Far less conspicuous than anything NOIR had put them in.

"Third Boulevard, please." He showed the driver a generous sum. The man's eyes lit up, and the car accelerated. They were dropped at the gate of the villa described in the note. Three storeys. Pink, white, and pale blue, a mixture that managed to be simultaneously opulent and faintly absurd. A flag bearing a light blue nurse's figure flew from the slanted roof. At the gate, the grey card had become an auction invitation. They presented it. A heavy guard in a fox mask bowed and asked for the registration.

"Mr. and Mrs. N." Lance said, like he had a rash just behind the tongue. The guard nodded and led them through the villa's corridors: rose-pink walls, marble floors, white ornamental columns, to a room with obscured glass doors. He opened them and delivered his instructions without looking at either of them directly.

"This is the private bidding room for the anonymous auction. You'll have a view of the stage and all displayed items. The red button submits a bid. The blue button connects you directly to the auction manager." He talked in a low tone, slowly walking away.

"Your voice won't be heard." He withdrew. They sat on the sofa and looked at the screen between the two buttons.

"So our whole cover-up was useless?" Lance exhaled, watching all the various stuff the auction had to offer: documents, compromising photographs, drugs, weapons, and paintings. All of it was standard Internal Guard business. Nothing that required the presence of NOIR.

"I'd be happy if the evening ended here. It's been three hours already." He looked at Jeanne, who nodded.

"I'm glad too." A pause.

"Despite everything you've seen from me, I hate fighting and violence. I stand by that." He dropped his gaze. He had been in enough fights to know what they cost him each time." He means it..." Jeanne thought.

"AND NOW... THE HIGHLIGHT OF THE EVENING!" The presenter pulled a curtain. Under it, a heavy iron cage. Inside the cage, a girl. Thirteen, maybe fourteen years old, covered in unhealed cuts and bruises, throwing herself against the bars.

"From the Termìe Empire. Thirteen years old, perfect health, Lambdite-compatible for all your new tests. Opening bid: eight million." The presenter indicated her the same way he would point at a display item. Lance's hands closed. The veins in his forearms surfaced. His expression didn't change. Jeanne was holding the fabric of her shirt between her fingers, her face darkened.

"Wasn't slavery abolished in the damn Archipelago?! This is... Horrid." Below, a great clamour of rumours arose. The numbers and the bidding rose, along with the little girl's cries. He pressed the blue button.

"Yes! Go ahead!" The presenter's voice cut through the crowd.

"Eighty million." Flat. Certain. Jeanne stared at him, bewildered. His gaze was firm on the crowd below. Silence from the hall below.

"One..." Still nothing.

"Two..."

"THREE. Sold to Mr. N." The auction closed. They were escorted to the collection room. Lance ran the card across the entry terminal, which vibrated with something like satisfaction. The guard tossed the girl toward him. She smelled of alcohol and ash and was shaking so hard it was difficult to hold her. He held her anyway.

"Don't worry." He took her hand and stood right beside her. The little girl's hand was calloused and hardened by the work and marked with fresh bruises.

"Thank you very much for your purchase!" The presenter said, waving. Lance didn't reciprocate, nor did he stop to stare at him. He snapped his tongue as he squeezed the small hand twisted around his fingers tightly. A dripping sound behind him. He felt the same cold thread running along his spine. They turned around, watching the presenter being lifted into the air. A gurgling sound echoed in the chamber.

A dark hand had him by the torso, not a hand exactly, more the suggestion of one, made from coiling black threads that vibrated like smoke held in a fixed shape. More threads spread from the same mass across the ceiling, creating the impression of a broad hat. The thing drove what might have been fingers deeper into the man's stomach, without hurry, without expression. It turned its head toward the boy and threw the man into the wall. The body hit the white surface and slid, leaving a long red mark.

The sound it made on the floor was something that made their pupils dilate and made their hair stand upright. The entity dissolved. Footsteps came in from the exit corridor. Two figures stepped out of the dark. A tall man with a heavy beard in a long brown coat and a black hat. Beside him, a woman, shorter, in paint-stained field overalls, blue and black.

"It seems our plans have adjusted somewhat." The man said, removing his hat and holding it at chest height.

"We probably should have anticipated NOIR's presence. Sending two recruits, though, a genuine shame." He replaced the hat.

"Roman..." The woman said, pointing at Lance, "I don't like that one." Her voice was high and grating.

"You're right, Maica. That look of his is particularly unpleasant, but we need him." He said it to her ear, quietly. The dark entity coughed, reclaiming the room.

"If you leave us the girl, we'll let you walk away." Roman said, with such an elegant tone that not a single person would have thought that he was a murderer. The girl pressed against Jeanne's leg.

"I'm supposed to believe that from someone who just appeared after killing a man?" Lance's tone was not rhetorical. The word no was in every syllable of it.

"Oh! You're fiercer than what I heard from my colleague." Roman smiled.

"Your little association sends its recruits out aggressively, as that woman said."

"Assassins like you don't have time for introductions?" He started to slowly reach for the weapon concealed in his pocket.

"My, my, I don't think you are in the position, nor do you have the experience, to hold negotiations." He removed his white glove.

"Well. If it has to go this way... I do hate getting my hands dirty."" Dush." A mass of black threads erupted from his body, condensed, and separated into a row of shadow figures: hooded, armed with pitchforks and picks, asymmetric and wrong in their proportions. Their clawed hands had no distinguishable faces above them. They formed a circle around the two recruits and began to close in. Lance reached back and touched his jacket. The fabric went liquid under his fingers.

It shifted, resolving back into his windbreaker and fitted suit. He pushed up his sleeves." Do we really have to fight them? Maliard wasn't trying to kill me, but this is a different story." He slowly moved his fingers." Maybe if I do rush like that time in the clearing, we can escape and call for backups..." He looked around, seeing the girl trembling while hugging Jeanne's thigh. The golden gaze of a girl he remembered quite too well pierced his mind. He watched Roman again, waiting for his next move.

"Jeanne... Do you think you can take on that woman?" She looked around, slowly caressing the edge of her case. A nod was enough for him. He exhaled, putting his chin up.

"Take care of the girl. I'll try to deal with that man."