The Key (3)
"Eat it alone and you'll get attacked for it. Share it, though, and everyone who's had a taste will work to protect it."
"Fair enough. The world's always worked that way. If you're going to eat regardless, better to make friends out of it than enemies."
Left alone, Alan lay down on his bed and stared at the white ceiling. Thoughts surfaced and dissolved, one after another, like bubbles in still water.
There was another reason he had taken Lorenzo's job.
[When the seal is undone, find the dragon]
Matter Transmission was an ability that bridged the Labyrinth and the surface. If not a dragon—or a Dragon—who else could ever wield such power?
Which meant the ruins Lorenzo had discovered stood a very good chance of bearing their traces. Even a handful of clues would have been worth the job.
Alan ate his dinner, watched the mages training in the open lot as he always did, and accepted the memory crystal handed over by one of Lorenzo's subordinates. He returned straight to his room and called for Taylor and Shiva. The moment he slotted the crystal into the spider that served as his terminal, light blazed from the machine's camera eye.
A list of Essel Magic Tower's subsidiaries scrolled past in steady sequence. Taylor's eyes tracked up and down it.
"Didn't he say he avoids internal competition? And you're planning to strip every one of these places?"
"It seems Tower Lord Lumiere's definition of 'internal' covers only the tower itself. Judging by the look of it, the subsidiaries are run by his disciples."
"He whips up competition like it's an addiction. What's your read, Alan?"
"Moderate competition accelerates individual growth, but too much carries serious side effects. And whoever survives that process becomes the next Tower Lord, so..."
"So they'll end up exactly like their master, won't they?"
"Not a problem for us to worry about."
"Still, it's worth thinking about. The whole world changes depending on how a giant like that chooses to move."
"Then we simply have to grow that big ourselves."
"Brother Alan speaks nothing but the truth. The storms of this world exist to polish the soul—keep an upright heart, and one day you will become a beautiful statue."
Taylor was nodding along when his finger came down on one of the subsidiaries. The hologram rippled like a struck droplet of water, and a diagram bloomed beside the list.
It was a map—showing how the company's structures were laid out, and where a key might plausibly be hidden.
"This is going to be a grind. That many subsidiaries—when would we ever finish digging through them all?"
"He's probably hired other people as well."
"How do you figure?"
Instead of answering, Alan pointed at the hologram. A few of the company names were rendered in a distinctly paler shade, and pressing those produced no map at all.
"Where blueprints exist, that's our share. Where they don't, other mercenaries are handling it."
They were on the verge of dispersing when Taylor, halfway out the door, turned back around.
"Hold on. That thief Connie hid the key somewhere, didn't he? So why is Lorenzo suddenly handing us a list of companies?"
"He must have searched them already. Since it wasn't at any of them, he scouted the plausible hiding spots and passed those on to us."
"How?"
"Matter Transmission. A memory crystal or a memo pad is even smaller than a newspaper."
"Ah, right, that thing. Guess my head's gone stiff—I forgot all about it."
"Matter Transmission was impossible until very recently. It's hardly strange that it's hardened into common sense. It'll start changing, bit by bit, from here on out."
Alan spent the night at the research base and headed back up to the surface. Having a Spatial Gate would have made things easy, but expecting that much was still premature.
Under the cover of a dark night, Alan's party drove toward the industrial complex on the city's outskirts. Some factories sat dark and shuttered; others blazed as bright as high noon.
Taylor had the driver's seat of the van, Shiva rode shotgun, and Alan took the rear space—called a space rather than a seat for good reason. Every manner of device crammed the back, and every cable ran to the half-reclined chair where Alan lay at the center of it all.
Taylor parked in a shadowed alley to wait out Alan's work, cracked the window, and settled in with donuts and coffee. Then a stir of sound rose from behind him.
"Recon finished?"
"Yes."
Their target, Damas Industry, was a company that produced magicware—prosthetic limbs and prosthetic arms above all.
"You really think it's here? You don't think Lorenzo's just using this theft as a pretext to strike at a competitor?"
"I'm sure there's some of that in it."
"Right?"
"I thought so too, at first. But after scouting the place, I've changed my mind a little."
"Why?"
"You remember the flame mage we fought in the Primeval Forest?"
Taylor nodded. The man had taken on the three of them single-handedly. It had also been the day they'd very nearly been buried in the Labyrinth for good.
"The security personnel's magicware is remarkably similar to his."
"So the disciple who pulled that stunt owns this factory."
"Most likely."
"Then I get to hit back, plain and simple. Enduring it once, fine—things happen. But taking a second beating and just sitting there? What kind of man does that? Even Shiva wouldn't argue with me."
Alan's left eye gave off a faint glow. Light gathered in the empty air of the van and wove itself into a three-dimensional model of the factory.
"The smaller building is a materials warehouse. The larger one holds the production equipment."
"So how do you want to play it?"
"Quietly, if I can manage it. There's no need to fight unless we have to."
Alan was an explorer, not a soldier of fortune. When several options were on the table, he preferred the one that spilled the least blood.
"I'm sending in the spiders first. We're on the surface, so the signal is strong—precision work is actually possible."
"Then let's begin."
KRAKOOM!
Taylor whipped his head toward the sound. Flames and smoke were climbing out of the materials warehouse. He turned back, slowly.
"I thought you said quietly?"
"That is quiet—in a relative sense. It scatters the guards' focus, and the shock running down the mana lines shakes up their defensive spells. There was no one inside anyway."
"Wow. How much did all of that cost?"
"No reason to worry about it. We're Lorenzo's hands and feet at the moment."
"Fair enough. Headaches are what heads are for—someone else's heads."
Employees of Damas Industry drifted one by one toward the materials warehouse, now burning merrily. Something unsavory was evidently stored there, because rather than call the fire department, they strained to smother the blaze with their own hands.
Taylor watched the firelight surging above the high wall and spoke up.
"Alan, you call that a quiet job?"
"In a relative sense. Once everyone's eyes are fixed on the fire, security at the other facilities turns threadbare."
Alan spoke from his half-reclined chair, one eye open.
"This wasn't part of the plan at the start. But after seeing the materials and runes in their magicware, I changed my mind somewhat."
"In that it matches the dead flame mage's gear almost exactly?"
"Yes. We were in the middle of recovering a stolen relic at the time, remember. Getting ambushed out of nowhere did leave me a little cross."
"You don't let a grudge go, do you. Terrifying child..."
"Child? It's already been a year since I legally came of age."
At that, Shiva—who had been sipping his non-alcoholic holy water—turned around. It was decidedly non-alcoholic, yet between the firelight washing over his face, his cheeks looked distinctly flushed.
"Ah, now that you mention it, Brother Alan—when was your birthday?"
"June—ah. It's today, actually."
"Then I shall consider that blaze a celebratory firework. Happy birthday to you."
Taylor shook his head slowly. Neither of them was quite right in the head.
"Good grief. I suppose it falls to me to keep this outfit balanced."
And as he shook his head, a thought drifted up from somewhere.
Today is June 6th. I should ask what time he was born... No. Better not.
Meanwhile, Alan's spider was creeping its whisper-quiet way through the ventilation ducts. Working like this stirred up old memories.
I used a toy mouse for recon at Novak's clinic, too.
Back then he'd pored over recorded footage rather than a live feed. Compared to now, the gap was heaven and earth—his skill, his wealth, and above all, his freedom.
In those days, with a bomb collar locked around his neck, he'd had no choice but to try. Now he chose infiltration precisely because he wished to avoid conflict.
The more knowledge and power you pile up, the wider your choices become.
That was why people clawed desperately toward the top. Great power came with great freedom.
Some would call that a lie. But in the world Alan had lived through, at least, that law had never once failed to hold.
The spider moved smoothly, silently. The soft, yielding material bonded to its legs—installed for exactly this purpose—was doing its job.
If anyone ever examined the inside of the duct, small prints would remain stamped in the dust. But the spider would be long gone by then, so it hardly mattered. Or perhaps more dust would simply settle over them until they vanished entirely.
Peering inward through the spinning fan blades, Alan watched employees streaming toward the fire scene. A portion of the security detail had held their posts.
That's only proper.
Abandoning your station during an incident meant forfeiture of your qualification. Some guards might go to help, but a sufficient number always had to remain.
"I heard a hell of a racket out there."
"Fire in the materials warehouse."
"Somebody smoking near the building again?"
"How would I know? Run a sweep, just in case."
One of the guards pressed a button set into the wall. A signal pulsed out from it toward somewhere unseen, and from below the ground, a wave of mana spread outward in widening concentric circles.
The pulse washed across the entire factory—a system that would shriek an alarm the moment it detected an unfamiliar presence or stray mana signature.
The spider curled into place, and its belly glowed faintly. [Stealth] shrank its presence to nothing; [Replication] copied the passing wavelength; [Emission] released precisely as much of it as the spider had masked.
"All clear."
"Good. Now it's our turn to go take a look in person."
"Why are you looking at me? Today it's your turn."
"Oh, come on..."
The spider slipped past the guards and pushed deeper into the facility. First stop: the president's office. The plan was to jack into the computer there and skim the latest correspondence and approval documents.
Tap.
The spider gingerly detached the fan blades of the vent and touched down without a sound. It scuttled beneath the desk and connected to the approval terminal—and there it paused.
"It's spotless."
"Alan, what's that supposed to mean?"
Taylor reacted to Alan's muttering.
"I've jacked into the president's terminal, and the only things installed on it are streaming apps and entertainment programs."
"Is there a secretary's office nearby, by any chance?"
"Yes. There is."
"Then hook into the secretary's terminal."
The spider slipped back into the vent, reassembled the fan blades, and made for the neighboring office. Of the three desks, it settled on the one that looked the most lavishly appointed and plugged its cable into the terminal. That one was stuffed full of approval documents.
"Oh—found it."
"Knew that's how it would be. The signature program is probably installed in there too."
"You know your stuff."
Alan kept up the banter while steering the spider through the documents. The deeper he delved into the Taylor Cultivation Method, the easier handling two tasks at once became.
"Anything turning up?"
"...This one, I think."
Every other document concerned the factory's operations. But tucked into the most recent entries sat one that didn't belong.
A request to Damas Tech for the dispatch of security personnel.
Beyond that, nothing suspicious could be found.
"One glance at that and you can tell they're moving to guard something, no? Then let's head over there."
"Yes."
Alan recalled the spider. Before vaulting the wall, he glanced back—the warehouse was still burning.
"The dead flame mage's superior must be feeling the sting right about now."
"Stinging is satisfying, sure—but won't they just tighten their defenses?"
"Other mercenaries have started moving too, so trying to hide things is pointless at this stage. And if the commotion here pulls everyone's eyes elsewhere, that works in our favor, if anything."
Alan's party set out for their next destination: Damas Tech. The name alone made it plain that this factory and the last one shared an owner.
This was where Brain Expansion Devices were manufactured, and the facility was accordingly filled with equipment of painstaking precision and staggering cost. Whether for that reason or some other, the security detail was thicker here than before.
Along the top of a wall far taller and heavier than Damas Industry's sat row upon row of automated turrets, while several Death Eyes the size of washing machines patrolled the grounds, radiating detection waves.
"Brother Alan, do you intend to handle this one quietly as well?"
"This time, it truly will be quiet."
Unlike before, the spiders came pouring out in a swarm. They took up positions a short distance from the wall and waited, motionless, for their master's order.
"Begin."
Beep—
Box answered. It had drifted up on its levitation unit to the chimney of a nearby factory, and from there it lobbed a basketball-sized black sphere in a smooth free-throw arc.
Considering the distance between that factory and Damas Tech, the throw should have been hopeless—but the sphere didn't fall. It glided.
It was night, and the black sphere would have been nearly invisible to the naked eye. The security guards never saw it. It was one of the Death Eyes patrolling inside the wall that caught it first.
The silver-gray sphere gave a slight shudder—