The metallic snick of Zima’s hammer echoed in the hollow cavern. Ribs groaned under the brass plating of Zima’s knee. The muzzle rested steady against Olen’s brow, an iron ring cold on his skin.
“An enemy of the state,” Olen rasped, spitting grit. “You staged it all. My rescue. My life.”
Zima merely tilted his head, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. “A necessary illusion, Baranov. You were a pliant subject. Loyal. Gullible. The Chancellors required a survivor, proof of their mercy. You served the role.”
Olen’s right hand, pinned flat beneath Zima’s hip, dragged through the gravel until his fingertips met a fractured wedge of shale.
“The Chancellors will hang for this,” Olen choked out.
“We already hold the city.” Zima began to squeeze the trigger. Olen jammed his left thumb hard into the nerve bundle behind the Chief’s knee and drove the shale point upward into Zima’s unarmored wrist. Blood spattered across Olen’s collar as Zima bellowed, his grip tearing loose from the grip.
Olen rolled hard across the scree as the shot cracked into stone, sparks lashing his temple. He scrambled up, boots slipping on damp slate, and broke for the dark.
Behind him, Zima’s shout tore through the dark. “Baranov is a traitor! Drop him!”
Iron hobnails hammered against the suspension bridge overhead. Plated boots pounded the iron slats, closing off the upper traverse.
He ducked between rusted haulage winches, shale sliding under his boots. Phosphor torches swept the yellow vapor, burning past his shoulder before he threw himself into a timbered drift.
“Cut him off at the bore shaft!” Zima’s shout drifted down through the ventilation flues. “He knows the layout!”
Olen heard the clatter of boots echoing from multiple directions. He knew their tactics. He *was* them. He veered off the main path, scrambling up a narrow, crumbling incline he’d used as a child to escape his wardens when he wanted to explore. Loose shale tore his palms, but he hauled himself up onto an abandoned tramway overlooking the open drop. Far below, sulfur flares burned pale orange across the foundry district.
Three enforcers swung onto the catwalk from the ladderway, heavy carbines coming to their shoulders. “Halt where you stand, Baranov!” their sergeant barked.
Bootsteps clattered from the ramp behind. Zima was coming up the access stairs.
The drop below yawned into yellow steam. Olen stripped the grapnel from his utility belt and checked the catch.
He sprinted for the platform edge and kicked out into empty air.
Sulfur fog whipped past his throat as gravity tore him down. Ten yards into the drop, he snapped the cylinder release. The iron claw whipped upward, wire hissing from the spool until the prongs bit an overhead flue truss with an iron clang.
The line snapped tight, wrenching his shoulder in its socket. The swing hurled him out over the lower quarter and slammed him straight through corrugated iron plating into a tenement loft.
Plaster and split battens crashed down around him as he skidded across floorboards, coughing up soot. The air carried the sharp tang of dried valerian and furnace ash.
When he raised his head, half a dozen foundry workers stood over him, their lever-action rifles cocked and leveled. Drafting tables covered in municipal surveys surrounded the perimeter.
Then, a figure stepped forward. Smaller, slighter than the others, his face pale and drawn. Liev Raskova. He held up a hand, a silent command that instantly lowered the weapons pointed at Olen.
Olen, bruised and breathless, pushed himself fully upright, his gaze locking with Liev’s. The urgency of their situation overshadowed his pain. “The recording is destroyed. We have less than a day. Does she have a copy?”
Liev shook his head, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips. “No. We have something better.”