city of anarchy

chapter three

The city sprawled out massively across the land below, an agglomeration of different structures and architecture, a chaotic collision of the old and new; the tall, bold and towering competing with the aged grandeur of the limestone buildings in an ongoing battle for prominence. The city pushed outwards, spread far and wide, encroaching onto the sea.

A black helicopter was heading towards the centre of the city. It belonged to Mayor Mawgly, who was just returning from a holiday. Mawgly was a great believer in holidays. She didn't ever want to tire of her job, and hardly ever being there seemed to do the trick.

Unfortunately, her latest holiday had been cut short. A rather big building's destruction had attracted rather a lot of attention, and she had to be seen doing something about it. This would most probably involve passing on the blame.

The helicopter arced around the top of the dark-windowed Sir Tenebrous Tower and began to lower. It reached the city hall and, hovering over the helipad on the roof, began to descend.

'Have you had an accident in the past three days?' said the TV. 'Walked into a wall, or fallen off a chair because some stupid bastard just didn't make the seat big enough? If so, call Injurlicious Solicitors today!'

The remote control wasn't working. Hermes cursed and threw it on the floor.

The TV had been wheeled in because the sight of nothing but white tiles had been driving him insane. There was, however, never anything on worth watching anyway. Hermes was bored. He'd been stabbed in the forehead with some kind of sedative and then just left to heal up, the monotony broken only by the occasional meal and need of the lavatorial facilities.

He readjusted his pillow and lay back, staring at the ceiling. He wondered vaguely what he was going to do about getting a new job once he got out.

Agent Avgi entered. 'How are you this morning?'

'The remote's not work--'

'Good. I thought you might like to know that you'll be well enough to go within the next couple of days or so,' she said. 'We would have had you transferred to a hospital, only it seemed an unnecessary hassle. And you'd have had to deal with lots of people with infuriating questions.'

'Er...right,' said Hermes. 'Can I ask--who exactly are you? Nobody will tell me. The nurse muttered something about agents--'

'We, Hermes, are the Agency. Hence the agents. Intelligence, if you like. That would, at least, provide an appropriate counterpart to the police,' she added. 'We're here for matters of state security that are too complicated for those thugs to handle.'

'Did you find out why the Facility blew up?' Hermes asked.

'No, not yet,' said Avgi, turning to leave.

'I heard screaming before,' Hermes said. 'Screaming and shouting and...something else. What was going on?'

'Don't worry about it,' Avgi replied wearily. 'Some prankstress has one of my best Agents a little stressed out, so much so that she brought her back here to further waste our time, and I sought to deal with the matter efficiently.'

There was a knock at the door and another Agent entered. 'Avgi,' she said, looking bothered, 'the Mayor's back.'

'Oh, shit and piss,' said Avgi.

The helicopter propellors came to a stop. Two appropriately crisp and austere-looking bodyguards carrying big guns climbed out, and Mayor Mawgly and a woman in a plum-purple suit followed them.

The bodyguards separated like sliding doors to flank the women. They marched importantly towards a door that protruded from the rooftop, the woman in purple reading the day's busy schedule off a clipboard in her arms. Still reading, a bunch of keys appeared by some professionally efficient sleight of hand, the correct key already poised for the lock. The door was opened and a grille was pulled back to reveal an elevator, which the four of them stepped into, the women first, followed by the guards.

Mawgly yawned.

The red motor scooter sailed along the side of the road with a gentle growl, practically unheard in the dominating noise of the traffic. Holly allowed the cool morning breeze to brush across her face and wake her up.

She could see the thinning tendrils of smoke rising up from the Facility ruins in the distance. She was going to prove that Eugene Quirkor was innocent, that it was a freak accident or something. She was going to find out what had been in that package.

She swung left and cut through the slow-moving traffic to a chorus of horns, taking a quick route through alleyways to get to the Impassionate Deliveries headquarters. She considered the likelihood that the police would be watching, slowed down and peered about. She couldn't see anyone, but the police were not exactly known for making themselves obvious. She decided to risk it anyway.

The ride became smooth again as the scooter left bumpy, damaged ground and cruised across asphalt. It stopped just short of a small warehouse with a corrugated roof. A sign announced the fine establishment as Impassionate Deliveries in faded red letters.

Holly dismounted her scooter, propped it up against the warehouse wall and walked up to the door, unlocking it with a small silver key from her back pocket. She entered.

Most of the inside was used for storage, occupied by empty boxes and rolls of brightly coloured labels, pending deliveries and pointless conveyer belts that had not operated for years. At the left end was Eugene's office, separated from the rest of the warehouse by a wall of grubby glass panels.

Holly glanced around and then entered the office. The back wall was lined with shelves of dusty, bulging folders that looked like they hadn't been touched in years. The explanation for this sat on a desk amongst further piles of paperwork and several dirty mugs: Eugene's computer.

She pressed the power button and waited as it took its time to load. Eventually it prompted Holly for a password.

Votecustomer, she typed, smiling.

The next thing that came up was a list of names, dates and other extremely interesting information. She shortened it considerably by whittling it down to deliveries from the past few days. She searched for any delivery related to the Conceptual Realisation Facility, trying each word individually, trying abbreviations, anything she could think of. Maybe he'd typed it in wrong.

She scrolled through the list manually; every delivery's origin and destination was listed, apart from a few omissions, presumably where Eugene had been forgetful. She squinted at the details of each one as they passed, making her gradual way down the list.

Then she came across an entirely blank row. The contents had been deleted.

She heard someone at the door. She cursed, ducked down and crouched below the glass panels. She had left her scooter in full view.

There were footsteps. A shadow passed over Eugene's office from the other side of the glass...

Turnfly winced as the metallic chair scraped loudly against the floor. She moved forwards inch by inch, hoping that short, intermittent bursts of it would attract less attention. She had already managed to get her legs free after spending a considerable amount of time loosening the rope from around her ankles, which were sore from being rubbed together for so long. The Agents had tied it tight.

She altered her course slightly, going left. Her mouthed gagged, she breathed in short, concentrated bursts through her nose, focusing all her efforts on dragging herself forwards. She reached the wall and listened out for the approach of any of the Agents. She heard someone, but then their footsteps faded as they passed by. Those Agents were too preoccupied for their own good.

She allowed herself a moment of respite, closing her eyes and breathing deeply. Then she tested the springiness of her legs against the wall a few times, the chair tilting back each time she did so. She dropped her feet down to the ground and planted them firmly at the bottom of the wall. She tested her legs a few more times, bent her knees, leant forwards as far as the handcuffs would allow her, and pushed off as hard as she could.

Wanting to maintain speed but stay upright, she worked her legs furiously in a tottering backwards run, losing balance exactly as planned and careening into the door with stupendous force. The door smashed open, the metal chair shattering into its component parts.

Her leg muscles burned as she struggled to get to her feet. Her hands were still cuffed behind her back. She spun herself around and pushed herself up the wall, once again using her legs.

An Agent had dropped her stack of paperwork and was running towards her, yelling into her special Agent watch for help. The doors leading to the stairs were roughly halfway between the two of them. Turnfly decided she could make it and bolted towards them, lurching forwards and very nearly falling over again. She crashed through the doors with the Agent not far behind her. She propelled herself down the stairs, hurtling around corners with panicky skids, her legs working with insane rapidity. She wondered how much longer she could maintain such speed.

She flinched as three bullets embedded themselves in the plaster ahead of her. She risked a backward glance and saw Agent Avgi with a semiautomatic pistol in an outstretched arm. Avgi fired again and a bullet shot straight through Snails' hair. She stumbled, losing her bearing. The other Agent descended on her. She fought to get away but lost her balance and tumbled over the banister. She dropped down the gap, still gagged and handcuffed, falling roughly seventy-two floors.

'Shit,' said Avgi. The two Agents ran to the edge and looked down.

Something, however, seemed odd about Turnfly's descent. A few floors from ground level, she had slipped into slow motion. The Agents watched as she descended gradually the rest of the way. Normal speed restored just before she hit the ground. She was surprisingly quick to her feet, and then running for the exit.

'I don't believe it,' whispered the Agent. 'I thought they were pulling my leg when they told me...'

Avgi shook her head. 'Turnfly has left the building!' she shouted into her watch. 'I repeat, Turnfly has left the building! '

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