The Brown Notebook
As Orban drew back the bolt completely and stepped aside, the carriage driver hauled the limp form of Martin into the office.
Beltz was already occupying my bed, and there was no room to squeeze another person onto it. Orban swept a stack of papers off the sofa onto the floor and spread out a rough blanket. Irina supported Martin’s head, laying him down gently so it wouldn't strike the wooden armrest.
Martin’s lips were parched and bloodless, and the cloth wrapped around his left arm was soaked with far more blood than when I had seen him at the pier.
“We need a doctor first.”
Orban’s jaw hardened as he inspected the wound.
“I will fetch one nearby,” Irina said, smoothing her longcoat as she turned to leave.
I raised a hand to block her path.
“If you go yourself, you’ll pick up a tail, Section Chief. Central Branch thugs have been staking out Doc’s clinic since this afternoon.”
“Is there an alternative emergency contact?”
“Follow the northern canal until you find an apothecary with a blue glass bottle hanging out front. Tell the old man there that the Orban Agency needs him urgently. He’ll send an errand runner to track down Doc.”
Orban pulled several copper coins from his desk drawer and pressed them into the palm of the Headquarters courier who had driven the carriage. Once the courier dashed out into the night, Irina waited until the back door was firmly bolted before pulling her silver identification badge and a folded dossier from her coat, laying them squarely on the desk.
“May I go inside?”
Irina gestured toward the doorway of the small back room. Orban glanced through the opening at Beltz, who was propped up against the headboard, and gave a slow nod.
“No need to stand on ceremony at the door. Please, go in.”
Irina did not step forward immediately. Only after Orban picked up the silver identification badge, meticulously compared the red wax seal with the Headquarters authentication code stamped on the reverse side, and handed it back did she cross the threshold.
Even as an officer from a superior department, her manners were impeccably correct, showing absolute respect for another person’s private space and proper protocol.
Propped against the pillows, Beltz pushed his broken spectacles up his nose with a trembling finger. Behind his single remaining lens, his gaze shifted between Irina and the paperwork in her hands, his eyes a tight knot of tension and relief.
“Did my investigation request reach Headquarters safely?”
At Beltz’s formal inquiry, Irina unfolded the papers and laid them on the nightstand beside the bed.
“It was officially logged by the Security Bureau eight days ago, Director. What I carry is a certified copy duplicated directly from the archived original at Headquarters.”
Beltz’s shaking fingers traced the Headquarters registration number stamped at the top of the parchment.
“There was no reply... I feared it had been intercepted and destroyed by the branch’s Security Section along the way.”
“Sending a written reply carried far too high a risk of interception during postal transit. We determined it was safer to dispatch investigative personnel directly to the field without routing through the branch.”
“A wise decision. If you had arrived even a little later, there wouldn't have been a living soul left to testify.”
No sooner had Beltz finished speaking than a ragged, choked groan escaped Martin from the sofa outside. Irina’s gaze snapped instantly toward the doorway.
“We secured Martin Hess at the downstream pier near the South Gate,” she said. “Three operatives from the Central Branch Security Section had already cornered him.”
“Were they... the same men who shot me?”
“I could not verify that on the spot.”
Irina jotted a note in her pad and looked up.
“They carried a wanted notice for Martin formally issued by the branch, along with valid branch identification badges. On the surface, at least, they were executing an arrest order handed down by their superiors. Further investigation is required to determine whether they belong to the same hit squad that ambushed you, Director.”
Beltz knitted his brows behind his spectacles.
“The man who leveled a gun at my chest was definitely wearing a security badge.”
“I will start by cross-referencing badges reported lost or stolen. If we treat the entire Security Section as the enemy from the outset, it will only make it easier for the masterminds to muddy the waters.”
Orban, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, tilted his head.
“Then we’ll need to find a trustworthy contact inside the branch’s Security Section.”
“Yes. I will begin by screening regular employees who are carrying out their routine duties, entirely unaware of this assassination plot.”
The conversation between Orban and Irina moved forward with brisk efficiency. Leaning against the wall by the entrance, I watched Irina’s profile in silence.
She had left her greatsword in the carriage. Even after the door was locked behind her, she had kept her hands well away from her coat. Presenting her badge first proved she had no intention of provoking the boss.
She’s definitely the capable manager type.
When she laid things out, there was never any doubt about who was supposed to do what.
I finally let my hand drop from the holster at my hip, easing the tension that had locked my fingers tight.
Marta came charging up the back stairs with her battered medical bag half an hour later.
The moment she stepped inside and saw Martin sprawled bloodied on the sofa, her face soured into a fierce scowl. Her sharp gaze flicked past the open doorway to Beltz lying in the bed, then settled on Irina, the pristine elven beauty standing before him in full uniform.
“ARC again?”
Marta dropped her heavy leather bag onto the floor with a dull thud.
“First I have thugs wearing that company's armbands loitering around my clinic, and now this place has turned into an intensive care ward complete with Headquarters brass.”
“You already saw one of them earlier, Doc,” I said.
“I know, you brat! I'm the one who kept him from bleeding out.”
Marta’s eyes snapped to my face. Her calloused fingers reached out, seized my chin, and jerked it upward. A sharp, searing ache flared through the split skin inside my cheek, making me wince.
“And where the hell did you get your jaw smashed in this time?”
Without a word, I jabbed a thumb toward Irina. Irina took a step forward and bowed respectfully.
“I was the one who subdued her.”
“Subdued? You call leaving her like this subduing? If you’d intended to kill her, you would've torn her jaw clean off!”
“I caught her as she fell so her head would not strike the cobblestones.”
“Oh, so you broke her face but saved her skull. How remarkably considerate.”
Irina blinked, momentarily thrown off balance by Marta’s merciless barrage. Orban cleared his throat and stepped between them.
“Save the lecture for later, Doctor. Please take a look at his arm first.”
Clicking her tongue, Marta pulled a pair of heavy shears from her bag and sliced through Martin’s work shirt. A jagged bullet hole was exposed high on his left arm—an entry wound with no exit, the slug lodged somewhere deep inside.
When Marta pressed firmly into the swollen flesh around the hole, the unconscious Martin ground his teeth and let out a strangled groan.
“Missed the bone, thank the heavens. The lead slug is wedged right between the muscle layers.”
Marta folded a thick pad of gauze, wedged it between Martin’s jaws, and motioned for Orban to bring the oil lamp closer.
“Sonya, pin his shoulder and elbow down tight. Hold him so the arm won't jerk if he goes into shock. And don't you dare crush his bones with that grip of yours!”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll watch my strength.”
Kneeling by the sofa, I draped my forearms over Martin’s upper arm and shoulder, locking him firmly in place. Irina sat near his head, using a clean handkerchief to blot the cold sweat beading on his forehead.
“It will be over shortly, Mr. Hess,” Irina murmured softly. “Do not hold your breath. Exhale slowly.”
Hiss—!
Marta splashed harsh antiseptic alcohol directly into the wound.
Martin’s spine arched violently like a drawn recurve bow. A muffled, animal shriek tore past the gauze clamped in his mouth.
Rather than crushing down with raw grip, I adjusted to the bucking of his torso, leaning my upper body forward to distribute my weight smoothly along my forearms.
I kept my eyes fixed on Martin’s face. Every time Marta shifted her instruments, his breath seized and rattled in his throat. Specks of crimson splattered against the cuff of Orban’s shirt as he held the lantern steady.
Martin’s right hand shot out, clamping around my wrist with desperate, frantic force. It was the absolute maximum grip a grown man could muster in the throes of sheer agony, but to the modified skeletal frame of an augmented human, it felt like nothing more than a firm clasp.
“You may squeeze harder if you need to,” Irina said, her voice low and steady. “Just do not move your left arm.”
With a wet, metallic suction, the long forceps backed out of the torn muscle. Clamped in their serrated jaws was a blackened, flattened slug of lead, fouled with shredded cotton from his sleeve and clotted blood.
Clink!
The deformed bullet dropped into an enamel dish.
“Didn't splinter the bone. Still, he isn't using this arm for a good long while.”
Marta cleaned the tract with practiced ease, threw in two swift stitches, and bound the arm in fresh linen. Martin spat the bloodied gauze from his mouth, drew in a long, ragged gasp of air, and plunged back into unconsciousness. His chest rose and fell in a rhythm far deeper and calmer than before.
The moment Marta finished washing her hands in the washbasin, she pivoted directly toward me.
“Roll up your trousers.”
“I can walk fine, Doc.”
“Did I ask if you could walk?”
When I yanked the hem of my pant leg up past my knee, the inner muscle of my right thigh was mottled an ugly shade of plum, seized up as hard as cured timber. Marta probed the patella, checked the ligaments running down the calf, and worked my ankle back and forth.
“Bones and ligaments are intact. You overloaded the system and the muscle cramped into a knot. No running today. Keep a hot compress on it. Now hold out your hands.”
When I extended my arms, my fingertips were trembling with a faint, uncontrollable vibration.
“This will pass after a day of solid rest, too.”
“I know.”
“You knew, and you went and fought anyway?”
Having nothing to say for myself, I shut my mouth. Marta blew out a long, weary breath and clicked her tongue. Taking a swab dipped in a stinging tincture, she jabbed it directly against the tear inside my jaw. The sharp burn brought hot tears prickling at the corners of my eyes.
Packing her instruments back into her bag, Marta looked between Irina and Orban.
“Neither of these patients is to be moved an inch tonight. Watch the one with the glasses for a fever, and check the other fellow’s bandages to make sure blood doesn't bleed through. If something goes wrong, send a boy to the apothecary.”
Before turning to leave, Marta gave the center of my forehead a firm, dull rap with her knuckles.
“And you, shrimp.”
“What?”
“Forget your odd jobs tonight and go the hell to sleep.”
Once Marta clattered down the back stairs, the only sound left in the office was the low, steady hum of heat radiating from the cast-iron coal stove.
I sat slumped low in a chair by the hearth, stretching my stiff right leg out toward the warmth. A moment later, Irina held out a clean linen rag wrung out in cold well water.
“Hold this to your cheek. It will draw out the swelling much faster.”
Taking the cloth and pressing it against my jaw, the sharp chill numbed the persistent throbbing. Feeling the icy dampness against my skin, I lowered the cloth slightly and looked up at Irina.
“Section Chief, you’ve pretty much figured out what I am, haven’t you?”
Irina’s hands stilled over the empty basin she was setting aside.
“I do not know the precise details.”
“You know enough.”
“...I deduced that you were subjected to illicit physical enhancement experiments.”
I pressed the wet linen back against my jaw.
“When did you figure it out?”
“When you seized my wrist at the pier. That was not leverage or strength that could originate from a frame like yours. And your combat style—you appeared far more accustomed to enduring blows through sheer biological resilience than employing martial techniques.”
Back in the imperial facility, all they ever drilled into us were basic hand-to-hand routines and static target shooting. Rather than teaching the finer points of subduing an erratic opponent, their sole concern had been pushing our physical performance metrics higher.
She had seen right through my reliance on raw, unrefined strength.
“Just from that?”
“At the end, your right leg seized and you collapsed. That was not the posture of someone falling from simple physical exhaustion. The reports on illegal augmented humans archived in the Security Bureau described that exact symptom.”
“Do you know which facility?”
“No. In those dossiers, the facility coordinates, operating entities, and funding conduits were entirely redacted in black ink.”
Irina reached out and gently shifted the cold cloth to cover the swollen edge of my jawline.
“If you do not wish to speak of it, Miss Sonya, I will not pry any further.”
“Are you going to put it in your report to Headquarters?”
“Unless it bears directly upon this Northern New Line embezzlement scheme, I have no reason to log an operative’s private history into official records.”
“...It has nothing to do with it.”
“Then I will omit it.”
Look at how cleanly she operates.
Keeping the cloth pressed against my face, I asked, “Is that why you didn't run me through with your sword at the docks?”
“I recognized that you had not come to harm Mr. Hess. That does not mean, however, that firing upon me was an acceptable course of action.”
Her reply was smooth and dry, without a drop of malice.
Irina stepped out to the carriage and returned carrying her massive greatsword, its blade bound securely in swaths of gray canvas. Rather than bringing it into the room, she propped it upright in the corner of the stairwell landing, then handed a sealed dispatch to the Headquarters courier who had returned from his errand.
“Proceed directly to the telegraph room under Headquarters jurisdiction at the Central Station and transmit this immediately. Do not, under any circumstances, set foot near the Central Branch communications office.”
“Where should I direct the dispatch, Section Chief?”
“To the dedicated cipher line of the Director of the Security Bureau.”
As the courier tucked the envelope into his breast pocket and melted into the foggy street, Orban spoke up from the desk.
“Was Director Beltz able to access that direct Headquarters line as well?”
“No. That line requires credential authorization from a First-Class Security Agent dispatched from Headquarters. Every telegram filed by branch personnel must pass through the Central Branch telegraph pool, where duplicates are logged permanently into the branch archives.”
So that was why Beltz had sent a handwritten letter instead of a wire. Had he trusted it to the telegraph room, the men with revolvers would have read it long before Headquarters ever knew it existed.
“What did you report to Headquarters?”
“Only that the Security Bureau has secured Martin Hess and placed him under temporary protective custody. I gave no details regarding our safehouse or the identities of those assisting us. If branch agents attempt to detain Mr. Hess using company warrants now, it will generate an official record of insubordination against my active protective order.”
“How long until official authorization comes down from Headquarters?”
“Two days at the earliest for the Director’s sign-off and the corresponding verification codes.”
“I doubt men who shoot up docks in broad daylight lose much sleep over a paper trail, but still...”
“At the very least, it strips them of the ability to drag him off with a simple branch directive. Naturally, it is another matter entirely if the city watch arrives with a judicial warrant issued by the magistrate.”
It meant we had broken past the point where flashing an ARC badge allowed them to do whatever they pleased. Even so, it wasn't an absolute shield against the municipal law of the city.
Shortly past ten that night, Martin stirred on the sofa and finally came fully to his senses.
After choking down half a glass of stale water, he pushed himself up from the cushions and, leaning heavily on Orban’s shoulder, hobbled into the back room where Beltz lay. The moment his eyes locked onto Beltz, Martin’s eyelids rimmed with red.
“Director... you’re alive.”
“I am glad to see you breathing as well.”
A quiet, heavy exchange.
Using the wall for support, Martin made his way back out to the sofa in the main office and used his fingernails to pick apart the inner seam of his work trousers. Stitched deep inside the lining was a palm-sized leather ledger.
Its grease-treated brown cover was stained with grease, blood, and soot, but the leather thong binding it tight was entirely intact.
“This is what you were looking for, isn't it?”
Beltz drew in a sharp breath, pushing up his cracked spectacles.
“When I changed clothes at the bathhouse, I took the time to sew it back into the lining.”
Orban cleared the clutter from his desk and spread out the field audit ledger he had compiled over the last four months. Martin’s Brown Notebook was laid flat right beside it.
Irina dragged the desk directly in front of the open bedroom door so Beltz could inspect it from the bed, and I carried the oil lamp to the center of the table.
Inside the notebook, names, parcel dimensions, and compensation payouts were recorded section by section. It held not just Martin’s assigned Section 3, but data from Sections 1 and 2 that he had quietly gathered from other survey teams. Those who knew their letters had signed their names; those who couldn't had pressed an inked thumbprint to the paper. Beneath every single entry sat Martin’s signature, certifying the payout.
The cross-examination began.
“Section 1, Lehrman Village, Parcel 42, Peter Schultz. Central Branch official ledger payout: 40 gold coins.”
“Actual on-site receipt: 12 gold coins. Signature verified.”
“Section 2, Kärten Coal Mine, Parcel 18, Johann Bauer. Central Branch ledger payout: 25 gold coins.”
“Testimony from surviving family: individual died prior to groundbreaking, actual payout: zero coins. Thumbprint confirmed forged.”
Martin called out the figures, Orban checked the verification boxes with red ink, and Irina tallied the discrepancies down the vertical margins with mathematical precision. Sitting up in bed, Beltz followed every single line item with wide, trembling eyes.
The numbers in the branch’s official books bore no resemblance to the pocket ledger. Households recorded as having received full compensation had seen only a fraction of the sum, their identities authenticated by crude, forged ink smudges.
A suffocating silence settled over the room, filled only by the scratch of steel nibs on paper and the sharp, rhythmic clack of abacus beads.
At last, Irina finished the final column and laid her pen down on the blotter.
Total accumulated discrepancy:
3,600 gold coins.
It matched the exact embezzlement figure printed on the wanted flyers bearing Beltz’s likeness, down to the very last coin.
“The compensation funds were duly allocated by Headquarters and deposited into the Central Branch main vault without issue,” Beltz whispered, pointing at the thin carbon slips pasted into the very back of the notebook. Every single slip bore an authorization number and the official crimson stamp of the Central Branch Finance Section.
“When the Route Development Department submits a budget request, Headquarters approves it, and the Central Branch Finance Section executes the on-site disbursements. These vouchers are the fraudulent proof the Finance Section submitted to Headquarters, claiming the full sums were distributed.”
“And out in the field, they skimmed the rest with fake signatures, then framed you for stealing the missing 3,600 coins,” Orban said, clicking his tongue in disgust.
Irina closed the notebook, her tone turning cold and decisive.
“This ledger proves that the branch records were falsified. However, we still have to prove who pocketed the money.”
“To determine who authorized this scheme, two original ledgers are absolute necessities,” Beltz said, his voice ringing clear against the plaster wall.
“The ‘Final Cash Disbursement Ledger’ locked inside the vault of the Central Branch Finance Section, and the ‘Special Disbursement Order’ bearing the Branch Director's personal seal. We must verify who actually released the gold, and who commanded the payment.”
Quiet descended upon the office once more. Through the frost-rimmed windowpanes, the distant, mournful wail of a midnight freight train’s whistle drifted across the city.
I turned my gaze toward the window. Beyond the black silhouette of the factory smokestacks stood the Central Branch administrative complex—the very office where the men who had hunted me down at the bathhouse clocked in every morning.