Iver stepped off the tram at Triomf Spire and rushed up the autowalk. She still wore the quantum suit concealed under her formalwear, grateful for the suit’s cooling metafabric. Her hair was chaotic but she was certain no one would notice, since that was the way she usually presented.
Her comm pinged. It was Falla. “Will I see you tonight?”
“I’ve had a long day,” said Iver. “I may have to miss this one.”
“Don’t be gloomy,” cooed Falla. “I’ll make it worth your while.”
“Meaning?”
“Jau fetched some prime exi. He guarantees we’ll be touching stars.”
Iver grinned. “Don’t start without me.”
As she cut the connection, her mind replayed the leap onto Constellation Spire, the distraught faces of the Catalyst society members, the stairway fight with the warder. This was a truly significant night for The Beacon.
The quantum suit was everything Phaen hypothesized it would be. The m-drones functioned flawlessly. Sure, she was practically insolvent, but these latest gadgets were more than worth the investment. As was the impact that she was certain would be felt across Avalon.
Iver took the lift to level 145, thankful that running late to the event meant she had the compartment to herself. She exited into a massive ballroom to the sound of a familiar voice amplified by a sound system.
Dalwin Hartmut paused his speech just long enough to shoot a cold look at Iver across hundreds of occupied tables. Dalwin, you fickling, she thought. How did you even see me?
Dalwin swept his fingers through his thinning hair as he glanced at the notes projected atop the lectern. “As we look to the future,” he continued. “I’m convinced the work of the Norn Foundation will be more important than ever. We can’t have a safe, healthy Avalon without a safe, healthy community of migrators from the outer districts, co-existing and benefiting from the prosperity we all enjoy. In fact, I am committed to laying the groundwork to open more avenues of direct investment in the outer districts.”
He held for applause. “I take great pride in the small part I play as a Norn patron – perhaps even more pride than my role as a Consortium Shareholder. Because it brings me joy to see the direct effect that an organization like Norn can provide for these people.
“People like Wolah, a migrator from Exill District,” he continued. “She grew up in squalid, wretched, vicious poverty. Her parents were killed by violent insurgents when she was three. After years of studying, petitioning and nineteen denials, she was granted provisional status to be a cleaner inside the Protectorate.”
As Dalwin continued his speech, Iver stepped past holo-boards sporting the Norn Foundation logo, navigating between tables until she spotted the one reserved for Norn associates. Kaina Emils, Iver’s boss, waved her to an empty seat.
“How long has he been going?” Iver asked as she sat down.
“Too long, as usual,” Kaina whispered. “But to be fair, he got started late. Apparently The Beacon hacked SigLink again. So there was quite a bit of distraction.”
“It must have annoyed Dalwin to wait.”
“Very much so,” Kaina said.
“Two months after she was retained by an influential family, Wolah was accused of stealing glassware,” Dalwin continued. “The Norn Foundation covered her legal services. We paid for her medical bills while she recovered from injuries suffered during interrogation. And, thanks to our work, Wolah was cleared of any wrongdoing and is now retained as a cleaner for my family.”
Iver rolled her eyes as the audience politely applauded. Dalwin would never stop telling that same tired story. She was certain he didn’t even know Wolah’s last name.
Iver had worked for the Norn Foundation as a brand narrative consultant for two years. Dalwin himself had offered her the position, after he’d uncovered that she was the pirate sigcaster behind The Beacon. For months Iver had been hacking into SigLink, Avalon’s official broadcast, to post vids of migrators being harassed and brutalized by warders and CCDF agents.
The Beacon had become quite notorious by the time Dalwin rooted out her operation. Luckily he had found her on his own, not as part of the ongoing investigations by the Consortium Authority.
More importantly, he admired what she was doing. He not only kept her secret; Dalwin secured her a job at Norn and became an investor of her clandestine dispatch. Iver was initially dubious of his generosity, but was in desperate need of funding. She’d used up most of her endowment to pay for her unlicensed neuro-implants.
The audience applauded as Dalwin wrapped up his speech. He stepped down from the podium and approached the table.
“Ms. Jagwald,” Dalwin said to Iver as he breezed past. “Talk with me on the balcony.” He didn’t wait for her reply and had stepped through the open sliding doors by the time she stood.
Empyc – tall, broad-shouldered with empty eyes – seemingly appeared from nowhere and took his position just outside the door. Iver felt disquieted whenever Dalwin’s security detail was present. Something about Empyc’s demeanor screamed silent killer to her. She avoided his gaze as she moved past him.
Dalwin was leaning on the crystalline balustrade when she stepped outside. Triomf Spire was the tallest structure in Avalon, and they both took a moment to stare out at the tops of the monumental spires below them. The moon that had illuminated Iver’s leap across the void earlier that night still hung in the sky. Lights from passing drones reflected off the spires’ dark surfaces.
Iver leaned over the balustrade at a precarious angle to squint at the distant sliver of darkness between two outer towers. “I was a teenager when I finally realized all the views face inward – even the spires on the perimeter of Avalon. That’s when I figured out the designers wanted to hide us from the world outside the Protectorate.” She lifted her feet and stretched her arms outward, swaying on the parapet like a seesaw.
“I find your compulsion for risk disquieting,” Dalwin said.
Iver smirked, slowly drawing herself back onto the balcony. “You need a new speech,” she said. “If you bothered to read any of my decks, you could find a dropload of other inspiring stories to share.”
Dalwin sighed. She could tell he was annoyed. “I espied your antic with the Catalyst Society,” he grumbled.
“Luminous, yeah? I was worried you might miss it – “
“I don’t like resources going to waste.”
Iver hesitated, caught off guard. “I exposed some prime sovereigns tonight. Tell me what was wasted.”
“You seem unaware that a significant percentage of the establishment take great pleasure watching augmented skids – ”
“Don’t say that word.”
“It’s what they call themselves, I should be able to use it,” Dalwin snapped. “Especially given all I’ve done for them.” He quickly shook off his exasperation. Forced himself to smile at Iver.
“The pit fights are popular, despite their illegality,” he continued. “At most, the spectators will receive fines. Perhaps the Catalyst Society will be shuttered for a few months while pit fights continue in more clandestine venues. More importantly, I know that the Acquisition Committee is in the midst of finalizing the incorporation of an official pit fight league. If anything, you’ve hastened the campaign to legalize the fights.”
“Motherfuck.”
“You tell me I can’t call them skids, yet you talk like them.”
Iver turned her back on the spireview and rested her elbows on the balustrade. Through the towering floor-to-ceiling windows flanking the balcony she surveyed the Norn associates. Well-dressed patrons and supporters blathered and mingled, nibbling extravagant appetizers distributed by small mechanized serving evods. Not a single migrator in sight; they were all on the kitchen level below, cooking and cleaning the dirty serving dishes returned by the evods.
The elation she felt earlier had completely drained.
She hated when Dalwin got to feel superior, which happened too often. Despite the myriad of annoying traits Dalwin possessed, Iver had to admit he was exceptionally intelligent. Unlike most Institutional Shareholders who were born into the wealthiest families, he had created his fortune. He grew up in the clerical stratum, rising through the ranks as an engineer until he developed cutting edge IntTech innovations that vaulted him into the upper echelons of Avalon society.
“I suggest a new stratagem moving forward,” Dalwin said. “We set a weekly consultation, where we discuss the substance of upcoming Beacon releases – “
“No.” Iver stepped toward Dalwin, getting uncomfortably close. “That was not the agreement.”
“Iver – “
“I’m the one that speaks to migrators every day, and not just when I need them to clean my toilet. I see what they face, I feel their tears. You look down from your grand spire and believe you can formulate what’s best for them without even knowing them. You can spend your tokens elsewhere if that doesn’t work for you, but I don’t need your input.”
Dalwin chuckled. “Is it exhausting to be so righteous at all times?”
“Go screw.”
Chimes sounded from Dalwin’s microLED. He sighed, exasperated at the constant demands for his attention. “We’ll continue this discussion another day.”
Iver was about to argue that he’d be continuing the “discussion” alone, but he was already stepping inside the ballroom, leaving her alone on the balcony.
Iver usually felt a wave of solace when the doors to her homeunit slid open and she stepped inside. Tonight, the cloud of failure clung too tightly for her to find comfort. “Close shades, lights at thirty percent,” she told the system as she moved past the multi-story windows.
A grove of hulking philodendrons, yuccas and crotons occupied the majority of the floorspace on the main level. Iver’s mother called it “the jungle” on the rare occasions she would visit in person. Iver passed a stone tiered fountain, pausing for a moment to watch the water cascading down its three layers, before turning up the winding stairs.
The second level had been retrofitted into her nerve center: the gym where she trained, the arsenal where she stored her growing cache of unsanctioned tech, and the workshop where Phaen spent most of his time modifying her equipment and creating codes used to disrupt SigLink’s datastreams.
Her younger brother jumped up from the console he’d been hunched over as soon as she stepped onto the landing.
“I need a full report,” Phaen said. “I can’t believe you didn’t ping me back. How long were you planning to make me wait?” He grabbed the gearpack from her and pulled her tacbelt, goggles and gloves from it before she could respond. “Any damage? Any glitches? The sig loaded fine – image clear. Shorter than I would’ve preferred, but it is what it is. I ran face scans on everyone in the vid. If you want, we could leak more names –”
“No need,” Iver said as she began to undress. She didn’t want to get into why the Catalyst operation that they’d planned for weeks was a failure. She only wanted to put the night behind her. She stripped out of her dress clothes and peeled off the quantum suit while Phaen studied the m-drones under a magnifying glass.
“Did you deploy the electrode m-drone?” he asked.
“No.” Iver draped the quantum suit over the workbench.
“I was hoping you would.” Phaen glared at her, indignant. “You still haven’t utilized it. I have no way to gauge its effectiveness. You don’t want to be in some sort of situation and then, when you need to save yourself, or – or defend someone – or subdue someone excessing on stim – “
Iver placed her hand on Phaen’s shoulder, shutting off the verbal torrent. “I used the flash drone. It worked perfectly.”
“It did?”
“Stopped a warder in his boots before he could even fire his raser.”
Phaen’s grin could have lit up the room.
“I have zero doubts the electrode will work exactly the way it should when I need to use it.” Iver patted his shoulder. Phaen nodded, seemingly at peace. Neither of them were fazed that she stood completely naked in the middle of the workshop. “You said we received a strange message.”
“Oh. Forgot.” Phaen handed a tablet to Iver.
She frowned as she read the display. “Someone from the outer districts?”
“I didn’t believe it either. But I traced the source as far as I could. I don’t know how they did it, but they got a message inside the Protectorate.”
The message was as cryptic as its origins: You must tell them the truth. Followed by a set of coordinates.
“I looked up the location,” Phaen volunteered before she could ask. He reached across the bench to tap a keyboard. An image appeared in the middle of the room: a drone shot of a stretch of pulverized earth carved into the side of a rocky hill. A massive, corroded blast-drill and a hydraulic loader covered in debris sat at the mouth of a yawning cavern. Ramshackle squats and hovels surrounded the perimeter of the site.
“It’s called Bellgast Mines. In Teris District,” he said. “Aldrekt Mineral Group mined it for copper ore until it was shut down twenty-five years ago. What do you think that message means?”
Iver reread the message. Shook her head in disbelief. “Someone in the outer districts wants help from The Beacon?”
Check out this map to find locations referenced in the story.
If you want to read another story in the From Our Ashes series, check out The Lancer, available on Amazon.
Great use of Dalwin's story to establish how bad things are and then dismissing it as old news