01-335 Haven

  Patrik walked through a party, wandering from one room to another while observing the guests and filing in all the bits of information he saw and heard. He was stepping on his brother’s area here, but Kvenrei was out of Haven, and based on the rumoured guest list, this secret gathering had required personal monitoring. The invitation been easy enough to get; they had spent years building a network, and the work was bearing fruit.

  The evening had been a long one, and Patrik had to push back his irritation: he wanted to get some sleep before tackling tomorrow’s duties, but he hadn’t yet gotten an assurance of the main participants and their relations.

  The fashionably risque party had turned into the drunken last hours, where music played at too loud a volume, and the rare intoxicants were openly shared. Patrik was sober. He was here because his responsibilities demanded it, not because he liked drunken theme parties. He would have preferred to be filling in the paperwork that was waiting for him, and this gathering was just one more extra task added to his already heavy workload.

  Patrik thought that the ordinary Southern social life was an ordeal, but this gathering took it to the extreme. It was that time of the year again, when the southerners paid respect to their dead and remembered the end of their world. The sombre rituals took place in shrines and private houses, some spilling to the streets as protective sigils or prayers solidified in holy items.

  Those rituals Patrik was content with, but this party made a macabre show of the history. It was a masquerade about the end of the world, a carnivalization of war, decay and death.

  Haven was an open-minded city-state, but even here, such themed debauchery was considered morally questionable. This was not Khem, where the attendants would have received heavy fines, physical punishment, and public shame, but even Haven furrowed its brows at such behaviour.

  To ensure privacy from the morally deeming eyes, the party was arranged in the basement of a concert hall that was under renovation. The selected rich and the influential mingled with the hand-picked figures from the outer city. Everyone was dressed like the ghostly survivors of the end of the world, their costumes complete with showy make-up and imaginative props, and often provided an ample display of bare skin.

  Patrik had a silvery mask covering his upper face and an ash-grey suit with ash stains picked out with dark sequins; a moderate outfit compared to many others.

  “Have you already tested this?” A woman wearing what appeared to be a ripped net pushed a glass his way.

  Patrik made a show of pretending to sip it. “Thank you, it is almost as intoxicating as you,” he said, forming the fake compliments with automation.

  “Why are you so serious? Smile a little. Has my lipstick smeared?” The woman leaned closer, touching his chin with a black-laquered fingernail. “Or…would you like to smear it?”

  “Sorry, miss.” Patrik pushed her gently away. He had lingered through painfully long hours to wait for Viper’s appearance, and his patience was wearing thin.

  The woman glared at him, but left, just as a door to the inner chamber opened, and Viper strode to the main party, Miss Ohanu on his arm, discussing with a masked gentleman Patrik didn’t recognise.

  Viper didn’t wear a mask or a costume. He was a hairless man, not only bald, but missing all the facial hair, including eyebrows. He compensated for his condition by lining his eyes with black. The make-up was never neat; it was rough, smeared, and -according to many ladies- oozing sexy confidence, a fitting statement for Haven’s self-made kingpin. Viper wore a long black fish-hide jacket over a brilliant green shirt and dark trousers.

  Miss Ohanu was recognisable because of her extravagant style. She wore an ash-grey dress with a daring cleavage, and a pair of scorched fake wings adorned her back, falling to the floor like a trail of blackened, partially molten metal. Her mask merged with the rhinestones glued to her face.

  “It all has rolled smoothly, very smoothly. I have my best men working with the case,” Viper said to the gentleman, like answering a question Patrik hadn’t heard.

  “I expect nothing less. Our cooperation has been satisfactory so far.” Patrik recognised the western aristocratic accent in the man’s speech. It meant that he was from Khem, probably from Giza, and his presence testified that Viper’s business was flourishing.

  Maybe the smuggling business was getting too lucrative, Patrik pondered. Stability between the two largest financial mights on the Shallow Sea was not in Ainadu’s interest, but so far, the gains from skimming a stream of illegal trade towards the North exceeded the costs.

  The Gizan gentleman offered Viper something from an ornate silvery box he produced from his pocket. Viper sniffed at it. “That’s lovely, and of the purest quality, I see. You tempt me, you really tempt me, but I quit that stuff years ago.”

  Miss Ohanu took a small roll from the box and put it under her lip, smiling blissfully. “That’s why you are such a paragon of health. We should have more of these visits, maybe you would find the fun again,” she purred.

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  “I agree. I enjoy your city. It is a fresh breeze compared to Giza.” The gentleman leaned closer to steal a kiss from Ohanu.

  Patrik watched them go, hiding behind his mask. Neither Ohanu nor Viper knew him, but he kept a low profile to ensure his anonymity. This was a mission that should have belonged to Kvenrei, as he was Ohanu’s and Viper’s lapdog, but on the other hand, Patrik couldn’t imagine him patiently gathering the information. No, his half-brother would have discarded the task and enjoyed himself.

  “Are you alone, big boy?” Another lady approached Patrik. This time, it was a curvaceous beauty wearing a stained, skin-tight dress with a ripped hem, her feet disappearing in military boots. A mask made of yellow flowers covered her face and extended artfully to her hairdo. Patrik gathered the hints but couldn’t name the Old the woman had dressed up as.

  “I was waiting for someone,” Patrik tried to dismiss the woman. He was good at it, having pushed away several ladies who had been seeking company.

  “And you just found her! Come, people are gathering on the dance floor, and I want you to partner me.” She took Patrik’s hand and dragged him towards the next room.

  Patrik decided to follow, feeling nothing as the woman pressed her body against him. This was just work, and these women were but a distraction. Not even a pleasant distraction, for Patrik wanted someone he could connect with, a lifetime partner, a woman he could love foreverafter. He had already had his share of one-night stands and messy dates that spoiled his schedules. He had dated too many demanding women, who were only after a boost to their social standing and disappeared when they had to accommodate his work into their plans.

  The woman in the flower mask led Patrik to a hall where a small stage had been arranged. The band, all the players in masks, had been playing the whole night, but now they were quiet, only a lonely flute playing a sad melody. The people milled around, whispering, and expecting something to happen.

  A man climbed to the stage, wearing a uniform in blue and grey camouflage, accessorised with fake weapons and high-tech equipment resembling items seen in the rare pictures from the past. A spotlight illuminated him while the music stopped, but his face stayed in the shadows below his cap.

  “Sinners, hear the sirens that wail for a dead world!” the man said, and a wailing sound started. Patrik silently applauded for the show’s timing and technical execution. He saw the reactions around him, the eyes widening in fear, the soft gasps, couples huddling together. Patrik recognised the narrative craftsmanship, but its message didn’t touch his heart.

  The speaker gave a poetic talk about a burning world and the suffering of its citizens, who shepherded the growing bioship larvae and harnessed them for the long journey to the stars. The woman had dragged Patrik in the middle of the crowd and was now sobbing against his chest, her emotions raw and strong.

  The other people showed similar responses, reacting to the sad, cruel, and terrifying details. The speaker guided his audience deeper into the horror that had been Watergate’s orbital war, the end of this world.

  Of course, Patrik knew the story. He rested a palm lightly on the trembling woman’s waist as she emphasised with the narrative. Patrik was not a rude man; he showed polite manners and a soft tongue when such were needed. More often, he prioritised his duties over the emotional niceties.

  “And the ash fell from the skies,” the speaker whispered, raising his palms at the roof.

  The lights dimmed, and the band started a wailing melody known as the Requiem for the Old. People were crying as a rain of soft, grey flakes started, blown in from a pipe arranged at the roof, Patrik noticed.

  It was not real ash, but a glittering theatre replica, and it clung to people as it fell on their hair and clothes, and turned the floor dark, as they stood on burned ground.

  Patrik waited patiently, recognising that the narrative arc was nearing its catharsis. His mother financed a theatre in Sandau, and he had grown up with a never-ending commentary about the different aspects of executing a piece. It had ruined the performing arts for him.

  The speaker let the audience experience the raw emotions, standing still as ash rained on him. As Patrik had anticipated, the fake ash rain stopped, the light brightened, and the sad melody died. The speaker looked upward, raising his hands as in a greeting.

  “From the ashes we rose. We are still alive, we are still breathing. We can still feel, still love!” The man proclaimed, and music flooded back, joyous and strong. “Dance the night away! Enjoy your life to the fullest! You may be sinners, but you are survivors!”

  The crowd erupted in frantic movements; they whistled, jumped and danced, they raised their hands in the air, they hugged their partners and people standing by them.

  The woman in the flower mask drew Patrik into a fierce kiss that he endured. She didn’t notice his indifference as she leaned against him. Patrik adjusted his mask, estimating the situation. He was stuck in the middle of a crowd that was getting on wild, sexually charged overdrive. Everyone danced, a pair next to him was engaged in a deep kiss, and a decorative cardboard box was passed from hand to hand, its contents probably one more intoxicant.

  Patrik had gotten what he needed, and the atmosphere was getting too intense. The man next to him had lost his shirt, and the fake ash had glued to his sweaty skin. The woman in the flower mask continued kissing Patrik, her hands wandering all over his body. Patrik looked for an escape as the woman started to open his shirt, but the wall of people pressed close everywhere. Patrik was choosing the route and defending his belt to stay closed when the lights came on.

  “Party’s over! The city police have decided to pay a visit. Please, follow the arrows and evacuate. I repeat, police raid at the front door.” The man in uniform shouted, saluted, and disappeared from the stage. The people milled, waking from the trance, and started to move. A few stood in shock, some continued what they had been doing with each other’s bodies, others ran, a woman cried, someone giggled hysterically and most lurked towards the doors, like the raid was the expected ending for the evening.

  Patrik took the chance and strode onwards, leaving the woman and her flower mask behind. He weaved his way along the crowd as they followed a tunnel, climbed stairs, and emerged onto the streets.

  The shouts and sounds of running feet told Patrik that the city police were closing in. He turned a corner, climbed a fence to the next property, threw away his mask, and disappeared in the shadows. No one needed to know he had been there, and there were the next actions to be planned.