The shadow-bird coin, cool and heavy, pressed against Mireya’s palm. The unconscious man lay sprawled, a dark lump of ineptitude, his head lolling at an unnatural angle against the concrete wall. Rurik. Her kindly, smiling Rurik. The man who had delivered her fortune and poisoned an official, now sending assassins to her door. Not *her* door, specifically. He wanted the state registry claim. Her registered formula. It was the only logical calculation: new formula holders, sudden wealth, then quiet burials. The Minister’s aide, a minor functionary, likely a test run. Mireya frowned. This was an inconvenience. A monumental, energy-sapping inconvenience. Her first thought was escape. Pack a small bag, disappear into the lower tiers, maybe bribe her way onto a cargo barge heading north to the bleak Port of Krov. But the mere thought of packing, of choosing which of her newly acquired silk tunics to abandon, of navigating the smog-choked alleys, was anathema. It involved *effort*. Too much effort. No. Running was for the desperate. Mireya preferred leverage. She glanced at the unconscious man. Evidence. A problem. But one that could be solved with minimal input from her. She sighed, a small, put-upon sound. She needed a tool, a sharp, blunt instrument to poke at this problem for her. Savina Rask. The zealous forewoman. Mireya had seen the hunger in her eyes, the desperate need for order, for control, for something to *do*. And, more importantly, the almost painful longing for the taste of the forbidden. Mireya had just the bait. Hours later, the apartment door hissed open. Savina stood there, arms crossed, her face a mask of furious indignation. “Korlan! You dare summon me from my duties? The shift reports are piling, and the quota for… for *luxuries* is up this cycle!” Her voice was a low growl, barely contained. “Savina, darling,” Mireya purred from her chaise, a delicate ceramic cup of herb tea steaming beside her. “Come in, come in. The halls are so… public.” She waved a languid hand towards a small, untouched dish on the side table. “I thought you might appreciate a little something for your troubles.” Savina’s eyes, sharp as a raptor’s, darted to the dish. It held a small, perfectly seared cut of the radiator-meat, glistening with a rich, dark glaze. The intoxicating aroma, a blend of roasted herbs and slow-cooked fat, filled the air, a stark contrast to the usual metallic tang of the Zelen-Tier. Savina’s nostrils flared. Her jaw tightened, a muscle jumping in her cheek. “This is… this is illegal, Korlan. A bribe. I could have you arrested.” But her hand, almost unconsciously, twitched towards the dish. “A token of appreciation,” Mireya corrected smoothly, taking a slow sip of her tea. “For a… private consultation. About efficiency, you understand. The state values efficiency.” She watched Savina, saw the internal struggle, the fierce pride battling a primal hunger. The hunger won. Savina snatched the meat, devouring it in two savage bites, her eyes closing in what looked like a mixture of shame and ecstasy. She swallowed hard, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “What do you want, Korlan?” Savina’s voice was hoarse now, stripped of its bluster. “I need you to apply your… unique talent for detailed record-keeping,” Mireya began, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “The central factory archives. A small inquiry. About newly filed registry holders. Those with freshly certified methods, specifically. And any… unfortunate accidents. Sudden illnesses. Disappearances. Anything that seems… coincidental.” Savina’s eyes narrowed. “You think…?” “I think,” Mireya interrupted, a faint smile touching her lips, “the state might benefit from knowing if its brightest minds are being… productively managed. Or, perhaps, sloppily discarded. You would be doing a great service.” She offered another small piece of meat. Savina took it, her gaze still fixed on Mireya, a grudging alliance forming in the tense silence. “And,” Mireya added, “I believe I have a steady supply of… workplace stimulants.” *** Across the city, in the dim, sputtering light of a forgotten ventilation shaft, Janna Hanza cursed under her breath. Her fingers, stained with solder flux and the ever-present grit of the city, worked as she meticulously reconnected a hair-thin copper wire to the salvaged comm-array. This was her last working module. The others, she’d cannibalized for parts, or they’d simply died, succumbing to the toxic conditions of the underbelly. The spark of the last explosion still haunted her vision, a blinding flash of failure. “Come on, you ancient relic,” she muttered, peering through her magnified goggles. “Just give me a signal. A trace. Anything.” She needed to confirm her latest circuit design, a daring attempt to amplify the 1970s radio waves into a nascent information network. A modern marvel in a dying world. She pressed the contact. A faint, high-pitched whine filled her makeshift workshop, then settled into a steady hum. Success! Janna let out a shuddering breath, a rare moment of triumph. But as she adjusted the frequency dial, scanning for anomalies, her brow furrowed. There it was again. A strange, rhythmic pulse. Not a broadcast. Not static. Something… else. She isolated the signal, rerouting it through a diagnostic loop. The hum intensified, then sharpened into a series of distinct clicks. A pattern. Janna’s heart began to thud, a cold dread seeping into her bones. She ran the pattern through a rudimentary cipher she’d devised, a relic of her past life’s cybersecurity training. The cathode screen sputtered, then resolved into an exact sequence of alphanumeric coordinates. Her own coordinates. Followed by a timer. A *live* timer. Her eyes darted to the comm-array, then to the other scavenged components of her workbench. Every piece. Every wire. They were all linked. She wasn't building a network. She was *part* of one. The state police. They weren't just monitoring the airwaves; they were actively *using* her own technology, her desperate struggle, to track her. Every spark of power, every circuit she completed, every stray frequency, was a beacon for them. Her ambition, her very survival, had become her cage. Janna stared at the glowing coordinates, feeling a terrifying, claustrophobic certainty. She was a rat in a maze, and the cheese was wired. *** Days later, Savina returned, her face grim. She didn't bother with indignation this time, merely pushing past the apartment guard – a new, hulking enforcer who eyed Mireya with suspicious intensity – and into Mireya’s apartment. The air was thick with the scent of roasted root vegetables and her luxurious, slow-cooked meat. Savina ignored it all. “You were right,” she stated, her voice flat, devoid of its usual zealous fire. “The factory records. Discrepancies. So many discrepancies. The official reports call them ‘industrial accidents.’ Failed ventilation systems. Faulty wiring. Falling cargo hoists.” She paused, her gaze locking onto Mireya’s. “But they all had one thing in common. Every single one was an inventor under recent state grant. Each had just received a significant stipend. Every single one of them died shortly after.” Mireya felt a ripple of genuine disquiet. Not for the dead, but for the expanding scope of Rurik’s ruthlessness. This was far more systematic than she’d initially calculated. “The latest ‘accident,’” Savina continued, her voice dropping, “was a week ago. A metallurgist. Approved blueprint for a new alloy. Crushed by a faulty press. His stipend was due to be transferred the next day.” She exhaled slowly. “And there’s more. Drazan Vukov.” Mireya sat up, her brow knitting. “Drazan?” “He’s been assigned,” Savina said, the words heavy with implication. “A special investigation. Ordered directly by the State Council. Into the ongoing… irregularities surrounding the factory’s ‘logistics contractor.’ Rurik’s import-export business. They suspect… embezzlement.” Rurik. Embezzlement. It was a thinly veiled pretext. They were closing in. And Drazan, her pampering, fiercely protective husband, was now directly in the crosshairs of a ruthless, silent war she was only just beginning to understand. The danger had moved from her doorstep to her very bed. A soft *thud* against the main door jolted Mireya. A small slip of paper slid under the heavy plasteel, coming to rest just inside. Mireya stood, her movements slow, deliberate. She picked it up. It was heavy, cream-colored, with a faint, embossed shadow-bird in the corner. The certainty of the trap settled into the small of her back. In elegant, looping script, it read: *My dearest Mireya, A small celebration is in order for your registered recipe. Join me for a private dinner at my riverside lodge, tomorrow at dusk. We have much to discuss regarding your future. Consider it a token of my continued… patronage. Yours always, Rurik.* Refusal would expose her. Attending meant certain, poisoned death.

Delegated Espionage