“And I assume that SDC’s goosedown beds, ample fireplaces, and top-line chefs have nothing to do with your decision,” says Nadar. Her voice is surprisingly cold.
“It’s been a long day, Captain,” says Mulaghesh sharply, “and you’ve seen some disturbing shit. So I’m willing to give you a pass this one time, Nadar. But just the one.”
“I apologize, General. You have been most helpful in your assessment of the scene back there. Pandey can drive you back down, if you’d like. I’m afraid the rest of us have a busy night ahead.” She salutes, Mulaghesh returns it, and she trots inside Thinadeshi headquarters. Mulaghesh watches her go, reading her subtext loud and clear: You make motions like you want to help, but at the end of the day, you’re still on vacation.
“Whatever,” mutters Mulaghesh, walking to the auto. “I’ve got work to do, too.”
Pandey salutes. “Back to the lighthouse, General?”
“No, not tonight,” she says, climbing in. “Let’s go to the harbor works instead.” She flips through her portfolio, staring at the copies of Choudhry’s strange, disturbing drawings. “I’ve got someone I need to talk to.”
***
The first place Mulaghesh goes to find Signe is the SDC front desk, where she’s met by a thickset man who glances at a schedule, says “Dock D4,” and points in a somewhat northeasterly direction. Mulaghesh treks to Dock D4, only to be informed upon arrival that Signe has moved on to Prep Station 3, a fenced-off portion of the SDC construction yards. But when she arrives there the foremen tell Mulaghesh she’s missed Signe by twenty minutes; and while they don’t know her schedule, they think she was headed for the Tower Test Assembly Yard—whatever the hells that is.
Mulaghesh, huffing and puffing, trots back in the direction of the SDC headquarters, thinking that Signe must be under the impression that there are actually seventy-two hours in a day: there’s no other explanation why a sane human being would ever schedule their work in such a manner.
As she runs she looks to the edges, the shadows, searching the workers. Dreylings are commonly thought of as pirates and savage seamen by most of the civilized world—and Mulaghesh knows that this reputation is not unearned—but industrialization seems to suit those working here for SDC. Their sealskin coats are all color-coded and smartly arranged, their construction helmets festooned with badges and stickers signaling which areas they’re approved to enter. These people are here to do work, and they mean to do it well.
But some are…different. She spies some of the workers lurking in the shadows, watchful creatures with what are obviously riflings and scatter guns hidden in their coats. She even spots something downright disturbing on the top of a watchtower above the train tracks: a PK-512, a stationary, fully automatic, six-barreled turret capable of spitting out an incredible amount of destruction per second. She takes careful note of the hulking pile of machinery and its massive barrel set: it’s like a scaled-up version of the carousel currently holstered at her side. She remembers seeing one of those during a demonstration just a few years ago and recalls how it shredded a quarter-inch-thick steel plate like it was paper.
Biswal was right, thinks Mulaghesh. They’ve got a private army here.
She finally catches up to Signe, who is being pursued by a flock of anxious Dreylings like a mother duck pursued by her ducklings. As she nears she hears Signe rattling off instructions, and at the conclusion of each order a man peels himself away from her entourage and goes sprinting off through the construction yards. “…Dock G7 is currently undergoing maintenance, so we’ll need to reroute all shipments to H3 until 1200 next Thursday. Repeat, next Thursday. Tower 5 is being assembled, but when it’s finished, it should be able to provide stabilization for Tower 34, which is having trouble finding purchase. Tower 34 needs to be fully operational by 1000 hours Sunday in order for us to do the lift—we have to get that obstruction cleared if we want to get started on the western delta. How are we on diesel?”
“Tanker’s due in tomorrow.”
“What time?”
“Oh-nine-hundred hours.”
“Not good enough. Escalate.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
On and on and on. Signe winnows down her entourage until only three men are left. One of them is obviously her bodyguard, though from his uniform he’s somewhat high-ranking. He spots Mulaghesh coming, glances at the carousel holstered at her hip, and twitches slightly—almost certainly undoing a clasp on some hidden holster.
Signe glances at her. “Oh. Ah! Hello, General. How was the fortress? Illuminating, I trust?”
“Something like that,” says Mulaghesh. She watches the bodyguard closely—he’s a lean, lupine sort of Dreyling. His hair is so short it’s hard to tell what’s hair and what’s stubble.
“Allow me to introduce you both,” says Signe. “This is my chief of security, Lem.”
Mulaghesh smiles thinly. “Evening, Lem.”
Lem just nods. His glower doesn’t change one bit.
“I have some matters to discuss with you,” says Mulaghesh.
“Absolutely,” says Signe, checking off something on a clipboard with a surprising amount of vindication. “I would be more than happy to chat with you. However, I’m reviewing a new tower assembly process that might significantly accelerate a crucial stage in our process.”
“Okay…So?”
“So…” Signe points ahead to a line of thick iron walls, nearly twenty feet tall, riddled with riveted seams. The only visible entrance is a very threatening door with a multistep locking system. It looks like something built to withstand an armed assault, though its roof is a series of canvas tarps, stretched out to give it shelter from the rain. “So, you will not be able to accompany me, I’m afraid. That’s the tower test assembly yard. There are quite a few very, very valuable patents hidden behind those walls, and it wouldn’t do to keep the door open too wide, if you understand me.”
“You’re worried about me being an industrial spy?”
“I wouldn’t normally, but…A Saypuri general, eager for retirement, looking for a way to carve out a nest egg…Maybe I’m paranoid, but paranoia has, in my experience, rarely harmed, and usually helped.”
“Thanks for the kind assessment. So when the hells can I talk to you?”
“Mm…After this, I’ll be headed back over to Dock G7, so…tomorrow?”
“You can’t talk until tomorrow?”
“It is a busy evening,” says Signe. One of her aides hands her a clipboard, which she casts an eye over. “I believe I can give you an hour tomorrow evening. Say, 1900, in the board club.”
“The fancy place we ate at? Fine. Just one more question. When do you sleep?”
“Lem?” says Signe.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“When is my next scheduled sleep?”