excolocrack | EXCOLO: GUARDIANS

Chapter 1: Another Beautiful Day in the Dome

It is early evening as I leave my office, sunset streaking through the Dome, the pale glow of the Gate coming from the east so that there is light from both sides. I love this time of day. The clouds are scudding fast, and I think there may be a storm tonight. I find myself regretting I do not have any particular reason to go into the Outer Districts tonight. The city under the Dome is very graceful, of course, but I like to be in the open air.

However, I have arranged to meet a friend for a drink, and so I stroll the three blocks from the university to Illyria, a bar popular with academics and the artistic crowd. As well as Guardians, of course. There is something of La Belle Epoque to the warm wood and soft lights. I absently tap the bust of Shakespeare for luck as I come in - his forehead is worn from thousands of patrons doing this, though no one knows from where the tradition originated - and I find a table. I flip through an e-newspaper on the table viewer as I wait for my drink to arrive. I minimise The Excolo Times; it is a worthy paper, well written and reputable, but I am interested in The Recorder. We are keeping an eye on some of its reporters.

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I cannot see inside, but eventually one of her men comes out to let me inside. Big and square, like most bodyguards. It is an amusing thought, them protecting her, but with her gifts they can deal with any neutered physical threats.

"Hello Benedict."

The car is cool inside, and quite. It smells of leather and faint perfume, and now of dust and blood. My ears are still ringing, but it fades slowly in the quiet of the interior. "What a to do that was. Miao and Alexander are no doubt in their element. There were people killed," she says, unperturbed. "How many, do you think?"

I think back to the blood, and the shape and movement of bodies. The moans as people realize they are alive. "Some six or seven, I imagine. Those near the windows and those hit fatally by debris. Another dozen injured, with the remained shocked and mildly hurt." I shake my head. "It could have been much worse, I suppose." I do not comment on her condition - Mrs. Voronin could hardly be other than fine, and if not it would be well not to comment on it.

She looks past me while I speak, gazing at the wreckage with bland equanimity. "Oh, much worse indeed," she agrees when I finish speaking. "I do not think any of ours were hurt, not badly, and so this becomes a meaningless act." I am not sure I agree, for they get better with practice, and next time I might not have been so cautious, or Dr. Shairan so swift.

"Not senseless, certainly, for there is always a motive, but meaningless, in the scheme of things." Mrs. Voronin leans close and flicks away a speck of debris with one slim, elegant finger. "They will always be afraid of us, Benedict. Should fear be punished, do you think?"

I frown for a moment. "Fear is healthy, but if it becomes overwhelming it can be turned to anger, and to rebellion. Best to show our good face to the general public, and then to eradicate those hopeless cases without mercy or hesitation." I smile. "Unless it is better to give malcontents known groups to join, so that we can keep an eye on them more easily." I glance out the window. "This sort of thing could be done just as easily by a single unknown terrorist - better we know who they are."

I wonder if I have gone too far, but Mrs. Voronin has never minded my peculiarities. I suspect she sees them as a tool to be used - much like myself. "They use to burn witches, in days gone by. Out in the badlands, the practise resurfaces periodically." I nod absently. I have seen people burn, have burnt them in fact when bodies were inconvenient, but I haven't seen anything quite so ritualistic. My own needs are more expedient.

"Fear is already anger. Anger at the inevitable. They are afraid because they know they will be replaced, one day."

I look down at my hands, crusted with flaking blood fading to brown. "Not yet inevitable, I think, but soon. We're better, frankly, and even the enemies of the Company have embraced that fact."

Her words again agree with my own, which would be more gratifying were I not her student in such things. My opinions should be expected to reflect her own much of the time. "People forget that a terrorist is a useful tool, whether he knows it or not. Zealotry trains their mind into obeying, one has only to change their focus. And the renegades, well..." My lip curls. "Chaff to be winnowed clean."

Mrs. Voronin looks as me speculatively. "I wonder if you would like to play a little game, Benedict." I still my features and body, my eyes bright. "We have a man at the facility who can tell a great deal about a person by their scent, and the scent they leave behind. He isn't to be trusted, but you might visit him, and utilise his gifts at the scene." She looks past me again. "Just between us, of course."

I nod. "Of course," I say, my voice hardly betraying a quaver of anticipation. "I shall be discreet, when I return." It's difficult to remain discreet when eating someone's flesh of course, but who cares about this man, so long as he is still available afterwards?

"I shall go directly, I think. This scene has rather motivated me," I explain rather euphemistically. "Good day to you, Mrs. Voronin."

EXCOLO: GUARDIANS

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