We didn't have landing gear. We had reinforced iron skids welded to the belly of the Ghost. "Brace!" I shouted as the mud of the Rust Yard rushed up to meet us.
SCREEEEEEECH.
The sound of metal tearing through rocky soil was deafening. Mud and dirty water sprayed up in high arcs, coating the cockpit. The glider bucked violently, sliding sideways before slamming into a pile of refuse and coming to a shuddering halt.
Silence returned. Then, a groan.
"My butt," Amelia whimpered from the back seat. "I can't feel my butt."
"We're alive," I rasped, unbuckling my harness with stiff, frozen fingers. It took me three tries to undo the latch.
I tried to step out of the cockpit, but my legs refused to cooperate. They were numb blocks of ice. I tumbled out, landing face-first in the mud. I didn't even care. The mud was warmer than the air at two thousand feet.
"You look like a swamp rat," a rough voice laughed. Foreman Rax was standing over me. He didn't look angry anymore. He looked impressed. He offered a metal hand and hauled me up. "Well?" Rax asked, eyeing the steam rising from the cooling engine. "Did you deliver the package?"
I wiped mud from my goggles, leaving a dark smear across my face. "Hide it," I said, my teeth chattering. "Throw a tarp over it. Bury it. If anyone asks, this is just a pile of scrap ventilation ducts."
Rax nodded. "Consider it gone. Go get some food, kid. You look like you're about to pass out."
Twenty minutes later, we were seated in the corner of "Old John's," a dilapidated soup shop on the edge of the Outer District. The place smelled of wet wool, stale tobacco, and—most importantly—slow-cooked beef fat.
To me, it smelled like heaven.
"Two large bowls," I told the grimy waiter. "And a basket of garlic bread. And tea. Hot tea. Keep it coming."
When the bowls arrived, heavy ceramic vessels filled to the brim with dark brown broth and chunks of questionable meat, Amelia almost cried. She wrapped her hands around the hot bowl. "Ow, ow, ow," she hissed, pulling back. "Pins and needles."
"Don't touch it yet," I advised, blowing on my own tea. "Let the blood flow back into your fingers first. Otherwise, it burns."
We sat there for a moment, just breathing in the steam. The warmth of the shop began to thaw the ice in my bones. My nose started running profusely, a dignified side effect of re-entry.
Amelia ignored my advice and took a massive spoonful. "Hwaa-hot!" she gasped, fanning her mouth, but she swallowed it anyway. A look of pure, unadulterated bliss washed over her face. "It's so good," she mumbled around a mouthful of bread. "I take back what I said about killing you. You can live."
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I broke a piece of stale bread and dipped it into the salty broth. I didn't say anything about the mission. I didn't talk about the ammonia or the Academy. I just ate. For the first time in weeks, I wasn't an engineer or a fugitive. I was just a hungry teenager eating cheap soup.
"So," Amelia said, wiping grease from her chin with her sleeve. "Do you think they noticed?"
Before I could answer, the door of the shop banged open. Three laborers walked in, dusting limestone dust off their clothes. They looked agitated.
"Did you see the smoke?" one of them asked loudly, signaling for ale. "Over the Academy walls?"
The shop went quiet. The Academy was the sun this city revolved around; if it sneezed, the city caught a cold.
"Fire?" someone asked from the bar.
"No," the laborer shook his head, looking gleeful. "Gas. My cousin delivers milk to the South Gate. He said students were pouring out of the lecture halls, coughing their lungs out. Said the whole Main Hall was filled with white fog."
"Poison?"
"Nah," the laborer laughed. "He said it smelled like piss! Like a giant cat peed in the ventilation shafts!"
PFFFFT.
Amelia sprayed tea all over the table. She started coughing violently, her face turning bright red. I calmly handed her a napkin, keeping my face strictly neutral, though the corner of my lip twitched.
"Cat pee?" the bartender chuckled. "Probably some alchemy experiment went wrong. Damn wizards always blowing themselves up."
"Serves 'em right," another man grumbled. "Maybe now they'll smell like the rest of us."
I took another bite of my bread. Efficiency confirmed, I thought. The ammonia dispersed rapidly. The smell is the psychological weapon—it humiliates them. A burning building makes them look like victims; a building that smells of urine makes them look incompetent.
"Are you done?" I asked Amelia, who was wiping tears of laughter (and choking) from her eyes.
"I'm done," she wheezed. "Oh gods, 'Giant Cat'. That's our legacy, Julian."
"It's effective," I stood up, dropping a few silver coins on the table—a generous tip. "Come on. We have one last errand before we sleep."
We walked down the street to the Courier Post. It was a neutral ground where messages could be sent across the city, no questions asked, as long as you paid the fee.
I took a piece of parchment and a quill. "What are you writing?" Amelia asked, peering over my shoulder. "A confession?"
"An invoice," I corrected.
I wrote in a neat, blocky script, avoiding my usual handwriting.
TO: Department of Logistics & Internal Security ATTN: High Inquisitor Voss
SUBJECT: Unsolicited Security Audit & Ventilation Stress Test
Dear Professor,
This morning, an independent contractor successfully demonstrated a critical vulnerability in your campus air filtration network. The "White Fog" incident was a non-lethal demonstration.
However, the next test may involve agents with higher toxicity.
To prevent further unauthorized audits, we strongly suggest the following corrective actions:
Immediately restore the full metal and resource allocation to Sector 4.
Deposit a "Consulting Fee" of 50,000 Credits to the blind account attached to this letter.
If these terms are met within 24 hours, the "audits" will cease. If not, we recommend investing in gas masks.
Signed, Efficiency Solutions, Inc.
I folded the letter and sealed it with plain wax. No crest. No fingerprint. I handed it to the courier along with a gold coin. "Rush delivery," I said. "To the Academy Gate."
We walked out into the morning sun. The fog had lifted. I looked toward the distant white towers of the Academy. A thin wisp of white smoke was still drifting from the central spire.
"You're poking the dragon," Amelia said, sounding worried but also a little excited.
"The dragon was trying to starve us," I said, stretching my arms. My back popped loudly. "I'm just reminding it that we have teeth too."
I yawned, a massive, jaw-cracking yawn that brought tears to my eyes. The adrenaline was gone, the food was in my belly, and now the exhaustion hit me like a hammer.
"Home?" Amelia asked.
"Home," I nodded. "I'm going to sleep for fourteen hours. If Rax wants me, tell him to talk to my secretary."
"You don't have a secretary."
"Exactly."