then, I didn’t need to, in order to help. In order to seek forgiveness.
“Getting into Hammurg will prove difficult,” Trent said, leaning forward and meeting the old man’s gaze. “We have manpower and skills, but we lack knowledge. Our own databases have been wiped clean.” Like so much of our history. “The Global Net is severely lacking. We think the Uripeans have seen to that. Satellite imagery has provided an overall layout, but detail is lacking. They’re blocking that too. We’ve managed to gain some intel from container ships we’ve sent to their port in the past. But the view is limited. Just what the cameras on board recorded while docked.” Trent took a breath, ran a hand through messed up hair. “Past their harbour we’re basically blind,” he finally admitted.
“And yet you are here,” the old man said. Too astute by far.
“What can you tell us of the u-Pol who patrol Lunnon?” Cardinal Beck asked.
The old man sat back in his chair. “They are not always the same men, but from what we’ve observed three different squadrons. All are equally as unemotional. Equally as detached. They have no conscience. They cannot be pleaded with. If we fail them. We die. Or they deliver the head of one of our men.”
“Immediately?” Trent asked. “Upon discovering your failure?”
“Within a day, maybe two. The wait is excruciating.”
“Hammurg is close, then.”
“A day’s sail,” the old man agreed.
“Or their vessels are fast,” Beck offered.
The old man shook his head. “Their vessel would be no faster than the one you arrived on. Their technology lies in laser guns and code scanners. Satellite imagery and drones.” Our drones.
“Wait,” I said. “Code scanners?” Just as Cardinal Beck demanded, “Satellite imagery?”
“How else do they restrict our view of their city or keep an eye on the Lunnoners?” Alan directed at Beck. “I saw no street-cams here, did you?” Beck shook his head.
“Code scanners,” I repeated, drawing the old man’s attention again.
He nodded.
“Like eye scanners?” I queried.
“I am not familiar with eye scanners,” the D’awan replied, then pulled up the sleeve of his ragged shirt.
We all leaned forward, gazes focused, breaths held. And stared at a series of lines etched into the wrinkled, dark skin on his forearm. No, not etched, I decided, moving closer, reaching out a finger and then pausing with it hanging in the air.
I looked up into his face. He nodded for me to continue. Then my finger touched down on warm skin.
The marking was not raised. But appeared more like black ink drawn on his flesh instead. I rubbed at it. It didn’t smudge. Permanent, then.
Leaning back, I lifted stunned eyes to his old face.
“What is that?”
“This is my barcode,” he said, staring at the offending lines for a suspended second. “When the u-Pol come, they scan the barcode and identify us.”
“Why doesn’t it come off?” Alan asked.
“It is a tattoo,” the man explained, then raised his brow in surprise. “You do not have tattoos?”
We all shook our heads, mortified that someone would be permanently marked in this way. Marring the perfection of their skin.
“Until recently,” I said, still staring rudely at the markings, “we had to wear our hair a certain way. Having anything that marked us as individuals was not an accepted policy.”
“This is not unique,” the man said, covering the mark again. “Well, it is, but it isn’t. Mine identifies me personally. But we all have one. Even the u-Pol officers.”
Trent exhaled loudly. “Fuck,” he muttered. “I’m guessing you can’t get near Hammurg without one.”
Oh no. He was right. This changed things dramatically.
I stared at the Cardinals surrounding me. At Beck and Trent and Alan. None of us wore marks. And getting one would prove troublesome.
“What now?” Trent murmured, as if talking to himself.
Storming Urip had just got a whole lot harder.
And it had
“Getting into Hammurg will prove difficult,” Trent said, leaning forward and meeting the old man’s gaze. “We have manpower and skills, but we lack knowledge. Our own databases have been wiped clean.” Like so much of our history. “The Global Net is severely lacking. We think the Uripeans have seen to that. Satellite imagery has provided an overall layout, but detail is lacking. They’re blocking that too. We’ve managed to gain some intel from container ships we’ve sent to their port in the past. But the view is limited. Just what the cameras on board recorded while docked.” Trent took a breath, ran a hand through messed up hair. “Past their harbour we’re basically blind,” he finally admitted.
“And yet you are here,” the old man said. Too astute by far.
“What can you tell us of the u-Pol who patrol Lunnon?” Cardinal Beck asked.
The old man sat back in his chair. “They are not always the same men, but from what we’ve observed three different squadrons. All are equally as unemotional. Equally as detached. They have no conscience. They cannot be pleaded with. If we fail them. We die. Or they deliver the head of one of our men.”
“Immediately?” Trent asked. “Upon discovering your failure?”
“Within a day, maybe two. The wait is excruciating.”
“Hammurg is close, then.”
“A day’s sail,” the old man agreed.
“Or their vessels are fast,” Beck offered.
The old man shook his head. “Their vessel would be no faster than the one you arrived on. Their technology lies in laser guns and code scanners. Satellite imagery and drones.” Our drones.
“Wait,” I said. “Code scanners?” Just as Cardinal Beck demanded, “Satellite imagery?”
“How else do they restrict our view of their city or keep an eye on the Lunnoners?” Alan directed at Beck. “I saw no street-cams here, did you?” Beck shook his head.
“Code scanners,” I repeated, drawing the old man’s attention again.
He nodded.
“Like eye scanners?” I queried.
“I am not familiar with eye scanners,” the D’awan replied, then pulled up the sleeve of his ragged shirt.
We all leaned forward, gazes focused, breaths held. And stared at a series of lines etched into the wrinkled, dark skin on his forearm. No, not etched, I decided, moving closer, reaching out a finger and then pausing with it hanging in the air.
I looked up into his face. He nodded for me to continue. Then my finger touched down on warm skin.
The marking was not raised. But appeared more like black ink drawn on his flesh instead. I rubbed at it. It didn’t smudge. Permanent, then.
Leaning back, I lifted stunned eyes to his old face.
“What is that?”
“This is my barcode,” he said, staring at the offending lines for a suspended second. “When the u-Pol come, they scan the barcode and identify us.”
“Why doesn’t it come off?” Alan asked.
“It is a tattoo,” the man explained, then raised his brow in surprise. “You do not have tattoos?”
We all shook our heads, mortified that someone would be permanently marked in this way. Marring the perfection of their skin.
“Until recently,” I said, still staring rudely at the markings, “we had to wear our hair a certain way. Having anything that marked us as individuals was not an accepted policy.”
“This is not unique,” the man said, covering the mark again. “Well, it is, but it isn’t. Mine identifies me personally. But we all have one. Even the u-Pol officers.”
Trent exhaled loudly. “Fuck,” he muttered. “I’m guessing you can’t get near Hammurg without one.”
Oh no. He was right. This changed things dramatically.
I stared at the Cardinals surrounding me. At Beck and Trent and Alan. None of us wore marks. And getting one would prove troublesome.
“What now?” Trent murmured, as if talking to himself.
Storming Urip had just got a whole lot harder.
And it had
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