A Flight of Broken Wings, page 12
part #1 of The Aeriel Chronicles Series
Ruban sighed, looking up at his cousin with a lopsided smile. “Well, I don’t see why not,” he said, getting to his feet with a chuckle. “It’s been quite a day. It deserves to end with excess calories.”
“I’d say so,” Ashwin chimed in as they all filed out of the house, the procession led by Hiya.
Simani strolled lazily through the little yard surrounding the Quarters, a cigarette dangling loosely from her fingers. She was finally back at the office after a gap of over half a month, not that it was doing her much good. She was to be chained firmly to the desk for another couple of weeks at least; no field-work for her until the damned doctors gave her a clean chit of health. It was all profoundly frustrating.
As she turned a corner near the back of the building, a hand grabbed her and pulled her unceremoniously into an alcove between the red-brick walls.
“Not that I don’t appreciate the interest, Ashwin,” she said in a level voice to the dishevelled-looking boy who still held her loosely around her wrist, his eyes bright with what she thought might have been excitement. Her own hand had gone instinctively to the holster at her belt. “But you do realise I could have killed you if I’d had just a tad bit less self-control. Or if you hadn’t been just a tad bit too pretty to disfigure.”
Ashwin laughed, and the sound reminded her vaguely of the slow tinkling of temple bells during Friday prayers. “Sorry to startle you, Simani. But I really did need to speak with you. I need your help.”
“And help you would’ve had even if you’d waited another ten minutes for me to get back into the office.”
Ashwin shook his head emphatically. “No, no. This is…secret. We can’t let Ruban find out we’re doing this. That’s why I couldn’t talk to you inside,” he glanced furtively at the main entrance before shaking his head again, loose strands of hair flying everywhere.
Simani felt her skin prickle with something that wasn’t exactly suspicion, but was close enough. “What do you mean? Why can’t Ruban know about whatever this is?”
Ashwin made a face. “’Cause he would never allow it, is why. He’s no fun whatsoever.” He shook his head sadly. “I’m only trying to help. But he’ll be all up in my face threatening to drive that damned knife into my throat, I just know it. So, it’s got to be you. You’ve got to help me get the tapes.”
“Tapes? What tapes?”
“The SifCo tapes, of course,” Ashwin said matter-of-factly. Then, when Simani continued to stare at him uncomprehendingly, he elaborated with the longsuffering sigh of one surrounded by his intellectual inferiors. “The security tapes at SifCo. There must have been surveillance cameras in the building. Particularly in the room with the formula, the one which Tauheen attacked. I need the footage of the fight – you know, between Ruban and Tauheen.”
“What for?” asked Simani, frowning. “That’s evidence, Ashwin. Vital evidence in an ongoing investigation. You can’t just walk in and take those tapes.”
“Of course I can’t. That’s the whole point. That’s why I need you. We still have the case for another week, so you have all the access you need. You can get the tapes for me.”
“But what for? What will you do with them?”
“I’ll keep my promise,” he said, looking earnestly into her eyes. “I said I’ll do what I can to help Ruban keep the SifCo case. And I plan to keep my word.”
Simani took a drag of her cigarette, then threw it down, putting it out with the heel of her boot. In truth, she had no real reason to doubt Ashwin’s sincerity. He had been with them for almost two months and in all that time had shown no signs of wanting anything but to see the case through, as he had originally claimed during their first meeting at the IAW. Looking at him now, she couldn’t detect any signs of deception on his face. Still, Simani had never been a particularly trusting person to begin with, and four years at Bracken had beaten any remaining shreds of gullibility out of her system. “Fine, I can get you the tapes,” she said, looking at him through narrowed eyes, watching to see his reaction. “But first, you have to tell me what you plan to do with them.”
If Simani had expected to see hesitation in Ashwin’s eyes, she did not find it. Instead, they lit up with what she thought was amusement, and he just laughed some more. “Show the world what we already know, of course,” he said easily. “That there couldn’t be anyone better suited to handle this case than Ruban.”
Simani sighed. She had a feeling it was just as well that she didn’t know anything more about this hare-brained scheme than this. Plausible deniability certainly had its uses. “Alright, I’ll get you the tapes. I’ll need to get in touch with the IAW, though. That’s where all the evidence is stored. It might take a couple of days.”
Ashwin’s eyes widened. “IAW?” he said incredulously. “No, no, don’t do that. We go straight to SifCo. They’ll have a copy of the footage. And they’ll give it to you if you ask – just for a while, of course, so we can make a copy of our own. You’re a Hunter, and involved with this case. You can just tell them you need it for the investigation and they won’t suspect a thing.”
“But why?” asked Simani, baffled. “Why go through all that trouble when I can just get it from the IAW? As you said, I still have access in this case.”
“Because, Simani,” Ashwin began, the longsuffering tone back. “If you withdraw evidence from the IAW, there’ll be an official record of it. It would be far harder to explain away than a casual chat with some junior security staff at SifCo.”
Simani looked up at the sky – the day was remarkably clear for monsoon – and prayed to heaven for the patience to deal with the Zainian without putting a bullet through his head. “Alright Ashwin,” she said finally, leaning back against the wall to get a better look at his face. “We’ll go to SifCo tonight.”
Viman Rai sat in his office, glancing through the script for the day’s programme, sent over by the output desk for his perusal before it was finalised. Usually, he liked editing his scripts. People didn’t often realise how much of a role ‘voice’ played in a news broadcast. It wasn’t always just about the facts; it was almost never just about the facts. It was about who was giving you the facts, and how well they were giving it. You couldn’t sound sincere or honest if you were speaking in somebody else’s voice. Not even the most skilled writer could perfectly imitate another person’s tenor. All the best anchors that he had ever known had significant input in their own scripts. They made sure their ‘voice’ was in it.
Today, though, he felt a vague sense of restlessness that he couldn’t really put a finger on. He wanted to go for a walk, although he knew it was a ridiculous notion. They’d start filming in less than an hour; there was no time for dithering. He forced himself to concentrate on the script.
He looked up, surprised, when the door to his office banged open. Menaka, his rundown producer, burst in with what looked like a brown envelope clutched to her breast, her eyes wild. Viman sat up in his chair, mildly alarmed. Menaka was an excitable woman, but he had not seen her in quite such a state since the Parliament attack story broke last year. “What’s wrong?” he asked, trying to make his voice as soothing as possible.
“I think you would want to see this,” she said, holding the envelope out to him, her eyes wide and anxious.
“What is it?” he asked, examining the package. He flipped the envelope over. It was unmarked save for a single name scribbled across the plain side – Brij. He frowned, looking up at Menaka. What about this package had put her in such a state? “Brij sent something? Something we need to include in today’s broadcast?”
Brij was one of his old sources, back from his reporting days, a young pickpocket he had befriended back when he had been covering crime for a local daily. It had been a long time since Viman had last been on the field, but Brij still sent him little titbits of information whenever he came across something interesting, though usually he just called or texted. In return, Viman took him out for dinner and drinks every couple of months. He couldn’t imagine what Brij might have sent that would warrant such a reaction from one of his producers, though.
Reaching into the envelope, his fingers found a small pen drive. Viman frowned; this was unusual. Taking the pen drive out of the package, he inserted it into the appropriate slot on his desktop. The folder opened to reveal a single file, a video of some kind. “What is this?”
“You need to see it for yourself.”
Well, he certainly wasn’t going to get any answers out of her. Viman sighed and quickly double-clicked the video icon.
Fifteen minutes later, Viman sat back, flabbergasted. “I don’t understand,” he said, his voice slightly unsteady. “How could…where on earth could Brij possibly have found this?”
“It’s obviously been edited,” Menaka was saying, seeming to have rediscovered some of her faculties now that she had shared her burden with her boss. “You can’t hear what the Aeriel is saying to the Zainian nobleman. Isn’t he the same one Casia Washi was parading around a couple of months ago? And a lot of the background details are blurred. But my God, this video! We could play this and nothing else for the entire hour today and we would be at the top of every ratings chart for the next week at least. When I first saw it, I would’ve sworn it was at least partly doctored. But IT says it’s a hundred percent authentic.”
“So the rumours are true then,” Viman said, ignoring Menaka’s chattering. “The Aeriel Queen has resurfaced. She was the one who attacked SifCo. It’s a surprise it ended as well as it did, really. If half of what they say about her is true, we could have been swimming in casualties after that attack.”
“What?”
“The Aeriel, the one that made it out. The one that was talking to the Zainian. Didn’t you see its wings? The three red marks. It was Tauheen, the last Aeriel Queen.”
Menaka gasped. “Oh-oh my God. I-I didn’t–”
Viman cut her off. “Go tell the output people we’re running this today itself. Rewrite the script; call SifCo and the IAW for comment. I need to make a call.”
Brij picked up on the second ring. “Hullo, Viman ji, what can I do for you sir?”
“I received the package you sent me,” began Viman carefully. “Where did you get it?”
“Ah, you got it? Good good. He told me it was something you’d like.”
“He who?”
“An old friend of mine, sir. From back home. He’s a waiter at a pub in Himli now, place called ‘Red Poppy’. You wouldn’t know him, I don’t think. Said an old patron of his sent it to him, sir, with money so as to pass it on to the capital. Said ‘twas very important news, he did. So I thought perhaps you’d like it.”
“What’s his name, this friend of yours?”
“Gabin sir, but he’s never been to the city, to my knowledge. You wouldn’t know him.”
“And this patron of his, you know who it was? Can you find out?” Viman asked, expectantly. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this excited about a story.
“Can’t rightly say, sir. I don’t think Gab knows neither; the gentleman’s name, that is. He did say the package arrived from Zaini, though. With instructions to pass it on to the capital.”
“Zaini? That doesn’t make any sense. How could this video have gone to Zaini when nobody’s seen it in Ragah?”
“Can’t rightly say, sir,” Brij said. He sounded nervous now, frightened. “Is there somethin’ wrong in it?”
Viman did his best to calm himself, make his voice as friendly and reassuring as he could. After all, Brij was a good source, as well as a good friend. It wouldn’t do to lose him. And he had no idea how much he had helped Viman by passing the drive on to him. It was luck beyond his wildest dreams, that the video should have come to Brij of all people. “Nothing wrong, Brij. You did a fantastic job, in fact. Do come by the office this weekend. This deserves a celebration,” he smiled into the phone, already clicking on the video icon on his desktop one more time.
“Yes, yes of course Viman ji. I’ll surely be there,” Brij responded eagerly, and Viman knew that the man was already planning the menu in his mind.
“See you later then,” he said distractedly, and disconnected the line as the video started playing once again.
Just as the Hunter, Ruban Kinoh, raised the sifblade to stab the fallen Tauheen in the chest, the door to Viman’s office slid open and Menaka walked in. He looked up at her, pausing the video. She looked more composed and self-possessed than she had when she left the office, though she was still clearly excited.
“We’ve made the changes to the script, sir. Everything is ready. We’re airing the video today itself, no delays. We’ll start filming in twenty minutes. I’ll send the make-up people around, shall I?”
Viman nodded, straightening, brushing imaginary lint off his suit-jacket. He could feel his blood thrumming in his veins. He liked his job, but it had been a while since he had felt so profoundly excited by it – it was intoxicating. Finally, he breathed in deeply, filling his lungs with the moist monsoon air. It was showtime.
Casia Washi looked down at her buzzing cell phone and frowned. Lifting five fingers in an unspoken signal to her crew, she slid out of the studio and walked briskly towards the east balcony; it was usually deserted this time of day. She recognised the number immediately, of course. She was the one who had bought the Zainian that SIM card soon after they had first met; he didn’t seem to have had much of an idea about the rules of international telecommunication. She supposed life in one of the noble houses of Zaini wasn’t conducive to much by way of practical education. What she didn’t know, however, was why he was calling her now, over two months after they had last seen each other. She couldn’t deny her curiosity, though, and slipping into the empty balcony, she clicked on the receive button. “Hello?”
“Miss Casia!” Ashwin’s voice came through the line, exuberant, and she could almost imagine him standing right in front of her, dark eyes sparkling with zest over whatever new thing had caught his fancy. “You have to meet me.”
“I do?” Casia said archly. “And why would that be?”
“Because there was an attack on SifCo about a week ago, and we need to talk about it.”
Casia frowned. “What’s there to talk about? Everyone knows about the SifCo attack already. We’ve been doing segments on it for days. I’ve exhausted all my sources in the matter.”
“Yes yes,” Ashwin said impatiently. “But you haven’t done a segment on this. I was there, Miss Casia. I know exactly what happened. I could tell you all about it.”
“You were there during the attack?” Casia asked, surprised.
“Uh-huh. From start to finish. And there’s a video that’ll be aired tonight by Viman Rai over at CXN that’ll prove it too.”
“What? How do you know all this?”
“My superiors in Zaini told me that a surveillance video from SifCo was leaked to the media. Apparently somebody had hacked into their systems or something like that. I don’t know.” And Casia believed that he didn’t, in fact, know. He sounded so confused she almost took pity on him.
“Alright Ashwin, I believe you. But what exactly do you have to tell me about it?”
“I want people to know exactly what happened at SifCo. There’s a lot of misconceptions floating around. And like you said, Miss Casia, if there’s anybody that deserves to know about the threats facing this country, it is the people of this country. I just want to make sure that the people aren’t kept in the dark any longer,” he sounded so painfully sincere, Casia had the irrational urge to tell him that everything was going to be alright. She tamped down on it hard.
“You say all that now, but how do I know you won’t bail on me again like you did on Emancipation Day?” she asked instead.
“Oh come on, Miss Casia,” Ashwin began, and he sounded genuinely contrite, though still defensive. “The Senior Secretary of Defence ordered me to stop talking to the media. I am but a foreign emissary in this country, a rather insignificant one at that. What would you have had me do?”
Casia sighed. She knew this, of course, and she knew it was irrational to hold the Zainian responsible for what had happened. Still, it had stung at the time, and Casia had never had an easy time letting things go. Now wasn’t the time for indecision, though. Forcing herself to look at the situation objectively, she said: “What do you have to offer me, my lord, that we don’t already know about this incident?”
“Please don’t call me that,” Ashwin sounded plaintive. Casia sighed, waiting for him to continue. It was hard to hold a grudge against someone so willing to roll over. “And as for what you don’t already know, Miss Casia,” he said, some of the verve returning to his voice. “It wasn’t just any old Aeriel that attacked SifCo. It was Tauheen.”
Casia spluttered. “What? Th-that can’t be. Those are just rumours. Baseless rumours.”
“They are not. It’s been kept out of the media so as not to alarm the public. Though personally, I don’t think that’s a very good idea, to keep the people in the dark. As I said, it’s all there in the video. You’ll see it yourself tonight.”
“I won’t have to wait that long,” said Casia, steel in her voice. “I have friends at CXN, favours I can call in. I’ll know what’s on that video before it is aired. And Ashwin? Come over to the studio at around seven this evening. Viman’s show airs at eight. I’ll fit you in in the eight-thirty slot. People will have seen the video by then, so we can have an exclusive interview plus an in-depth analysis of the footage. It’ll be quite the competition!” She was talking more to herself than to Ashwin now, the plan unfolding like a fully laid out chessboard in her mind. She pulled herself back from her musings and tried to focus on the conversation at hand. “Don’t be late Ashwin, and you can say your piece to the nation.”
Disconnecting the call, she strode back towards the studio. She needed to have a word with Jiniya.
