otherwise impeccable corporate suits, but most looked fresh off the roller from the company’s Upwest headquarters.
Three doors slammed in quick succession from around front. The coroner vans began to rattle away, tires crunching on bits of ash and ice in the road. Melni went back the way she’d come, beforeanyone saw her. The vans rolled by her, sleet crushing beneath their tires. A shopkeeper hosed the sidewalk in front of his business, his face as gloomy as the ash he washed away.
Melni tried to get answers from the Valix suits out front. They muttered scripted apologies and moved farther inside the police line. She peppered the ranking chin-up with zero success. She had to do these things. Her cover demanded it.
Conventional wisdom said to slip into a role where no one would notice you. Be someone who could move about without earning attention from the chins or the NRD. A nighttime delivery driver, that sort of thing. That’s what her instructors back in Riverswidth trained the recruits for. It did not matter that these methods had never produced significant results. It was the way things were done, the only way they knew.
And then Melni came along. The student journalist, one of many hired part-time to write news briefs for senior government officials. She’d been thorough, sifting through obscure sources and connecting things others failed to notice. And, despite being told not to, she’d analyzed and offered conclusions. She couldn’t help it. Melni was a
desoa,
descended from refugees of the Desolation. Her pale skin, purple eyes, and golden hair marked her as such and made her a second-class citizen among the native peoples of both North and South. Her mother had taught her that to succeed in life she’d always have to do more than she’d been asked, or risk going unnoticed. So she had, in all things, including that government job. She feared they’d dismiss her for inserting her opinions in the news summaries. But instead her work had been noticed by the powers that be in Riverswidth, and she’d been recruited to the role of intelligence analyst. Her
desoa
looks were, for once, a benefit. Her people were the only kind rightfully found on either side of the great crater belt.
But she was young and untrained. She lacked confidence. They told her she’d never make a good field agent. Being
desoa
she’d faced that sort of discriminatory conclusion her whole life. Naturally she immediately applied for a field position. To her surprise, they’d accepted.They put her on a boat for South Valgarin before she really comprehended what it all meant. After barely a month of training on local customs of the region she was given fake papers and confusing instructions. She made the harrowing journey through Central Valgarin alone, across the vast wasteland that was the Desolation. The land of her ancestors. Finally she found herself in the North, and fell into her prearranged cover as a reporter for a small newsprint.
In truth she was nobody. An agent of the lowest rank and skill, shipped off to the other side of Gartien, where she could someday prove herself without risking too much damage. All they’d asked her to do is send back any information she might come across related to military deployments along the border there.
Something else had caught her attention, though. Locals were grumbling because of major changes in the mining industry, which was moving jobs and equipment east to Tandiel. Melni investigated and uncovered something interesting: All these changes in the mining industry were due to demands made by Valix. There were orders for vast quantities of processed minerals with no known use. Originally her goal had been to send this information south, but a companion at the press happened to read her notes and thought it equally fascinating. The paper printed it. All this in her first week on the job. Things only spiraled from there, because that small press was owned by the
Weekly
in Combra, home of
Three doors slammed in quick succession from around front. The coroner vans began to rattle away, tires crunching on bits of ash and ice in the road. Melni went back the way she’d come, beforeanyone saw her. The vans rolled by her, sleet crushing beneath their tires. A shopkeeper hosed the sidewalk in front of his business, his face as gloomy as the ash he washed away.
Melni tried to get answers from the Valix suits out front. They muttered scripted apologies and moved farther inside the police line. She peppered the ranking chin-up with zero success. She had to do these things. Her cover demanded it.
Conventional wisdom said to slip into a role where no one would notice you. Be someone who could move about without earning attention from the chins or the NRD. A nighttime delivery driver, that sort of thing. That’s what her instructors back in Riverswidth trained the recruits for. It did not matter that these methods had never produced significant results. It was the way things were done, the only way they knew.
And then Melni came along. The student journalist, one of many hired part-time to write news briefs for senior government officials. She’d been thorough, sifting through obscure sources and connecting things others failed to notice. And, despite being told not to, she’d analyzed and offered conclusions. She couldn’t help it. Melni was a
desoa,
descended from refugees of the Desolation. Her pale skin, purple eyes, and golden hair marked her as such and made her a second-class citizen among the native peoples of both North and South. Her mother had taught her that to succeed in life she’d always have to do more than she’d been asked, or risk going unnoticed. So she had, in all things, including that government job. She feared they’d dismiss her for inserting her opinions in the news summaries. But instead her work had been noticed by the powers that be in Riverswidth, and she’d been recruited to the role of intelligence analyst. Her
desoa
looks were, for once, a benefit. Her people were the only kind rightfully found on either side of the great crater belt.
But she was young and untrained. She lacked confidence. They told her she’d never make a good field agent. Being
desoa
she’d faced that sort of discriminatory conclusion her whole life. Naturally she immediately applied for a field position. To her surprise, they’d accepted.They put her on a boat for South Valgarin before she really comprehended what it all meant. After barely a month of training on local customs of the region she was given fake papers and confusing instructions. She made the harrowing journey through Central Valgarin alone, across the vast wasteland that was the Desolation. The land of her ancestors. Finally she found herself in the North, and fell into her prearranged cover as a reporter for a small newsprint.
In truth she was nobody. An agent of the lowest rank and skill, shipped off to the other side of Gartien, where she could someday prove herself without risking too much damage. All they’d asked her to do is send back any information she might come across related to military deployments along the border there.
Something else had caught her attention, though. Locals were grumbling because of major changes in the mining industry, which was moving jobs and equipment east to Tandiel. Melni investigated and uncovered something interesting: All these changes in the mining industry were due to demands made by Valix. There were orders for vast quantities of processed minerals with no known use. Originally her goal had been to send this information south, but a companion at the press happened to read her notes and thought it equally fascinating. The paper printed it. All this in her first week on the job. Things only spiraled from there, because that small press was owned by the
Weekly
in Combra, home of
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