Osiris by E. J. Swift

alcove. Feodor passed, deep in conversation, and Vikram lowered his eyes in case a sense of mutual animosity should draw the other man’s gaze. He could not see the younger Rechnov. In the rush Vikram was afraid he had missed him, but then he spotted the sleek, charcoal-suited figure, a heavy coat slung over his arm, the auburn tint in his hazel hair.
    Linus was one of the last out and he was alone. Two pieces of luck, which was more than Vikram deserved.
    Linus turned right. Vikram waited for the last stragglers to amble pass and hurried after him.
    The young man walked briskly, Vikram following a short distance behind. The corridor curved gradually and Vikram lost sense of how far round they had come. Linus went through a set of doors. The skyscraper was even larger than Vikram had supposed. Within its outer ring was a maze of tiny corridors. These too were carpeted, with wall-hung lamps and decorations which Vikram had no time to look at; portraits and long lists of names.
    A little way ahead, Linus stopped. He put on his coat and did up each of the buttons and a feather collar. Then he disappeared through a door.
    Vikram followed, opened the door and stepped silently out onto a balcony.
    He was at least a hundred floors above surface. The skyline was spectacular: a medley of pyramid tops, flat, pointed and asymmetric, swathed in nylon mist. The wind met him ferociously. Another day, he would have admired the view, but today he had no time for it.
    Linus was leaning against the wall, his feet casually crossed. A coil of smoke rose from the glowing cigarette reversed in one gloved hand. The upturned collar cut sharp angles across his jaw. Vikram guessed that the coat was lined with feathers too.
    He shut the door gently behind him.
    “Mind if I join you?”
    Linus looked around. Surprise flickered for a moment in his eyes. Then it vanished, to be replaced by a cool, relaxed assessment.
    “Not at all,” he said. He had a face that contained both strength and delicacy; the Rechnovs were undeniably a good-looking family.
    Vikram took out his own cigarettes. His hands, lacking mittens, had become paws. The cellulose packaging of his cigarettes almost defeated him. His fingertips skidded on the top of the first tube, fighting to extract one from many.
    “Shit.”
    He saw the cigarette fall before he felt it depart his fingers. It wasn’t as if he could afford to throw them away. He brought the packet to his lips and teased out another with his tongue. The smell of oranges lingered on his fingers.
    Linus passed him a lighter. Vikram cupped the flame and passed it back. They stood in silence.
    “You must have been waiting some time,” said Linus at last.
    “Twelve months.”
    The Councillor gave him a quizzical look.
    “Since I began writing letters. But that’s not what you meant.”
    “No.”
    “You’re wondering why I followed you.”
    “I could take an educated guess.”
    Vikram gestured. “Please do.”
    Linus exhaled a thin stream of smoke. In his smart coat, he was well protected against the cold, and he appeared in no rush.
    “I’m sorry that your case was not considered. It would appear that the hearing today was something of a formality.”
    “You’re on the Council.”
    “Yes. Well, in an advisory capacity—that’s all it’s really here for now.”
    “Maybe with more preparation—more evidence…”
    “Actually, it’s nothing to do with preparation. You could do as much work, amass as many studies as you like. The outcome would be the same. It always has been, ever since the earliest attempts of the WRM—the Western Repatriation Movement, back in seventy-four.” I know who they were , thought Vikram, but he refrained from interrupting.
    “Not that the NWO has helped your cause, sadly.” The Councillor paused, apparently musing over the issue. “I’m Linus, by the way. And I know who you are. Obviously.”
    “Linus, nice to meet you,” Vikram muttered. Introductions weren’t really his