The fog off the Hamburg docks was a cold, wet shroud. It clung to the brutalist concrete of the warehouses, making the world a smear of gray on gray. It smelled of salt, diesel, and the deep, patient rot of the harbor. We ran, not with the frantic scramble of panicked animals, but with the grim economy of professionals who had overstayed their welcome. The muffled clang of alarms from the KGB depot was a fading heartbeat behind us, swallowed by the damp air.
Anja Petrova, the physicist who was both my map and my compass, kept pace beside me. She cradled the satchel containing the Iskra-7 Memory Core against her chest, a brass and crystal bomb we had just ripped from the heart of a Soviet fortress. The weight of it was more than physical. It was the price of our next move, the ante for a game we couldn't afford to lose. Our objective was a rotting finger of wood and iron sticking out into the Elbe. Pier 12.
We reached it minutes later, emerging from a maze of stacked shipping containers. The pier was a skeleton. Its planks were slick with a green film of algae and fog, treacherous underfoot. The water below was a slab of cold, black oil, lapping at the barnacle-encrusted pilings with a sound like a slow, wet cough. The world was reduced to a radius of fifteen meters, a circle of visibility where shapes moved like ghosts. We found the spot Haas had described, a stack of splintered lobster traps near the end of the pier. Then the waiting began.
Every shape in the fog was a threat. A piling became a man. A loose rope became a rifle sling. My hand never strayed from the pistol in my coat pocket. The adrenaline from the depot escape had cooled into a low, vigilant hum, a current running just beneath the skin. The air was thick with the kind of silence that isn't empty, but full of things you can't quite hear.
Petrova stood like a statue carved from ice, her gaze fixed on the impenetrable wall of white where the pier met the shore. She hadn't said a word since we’d cleared the depot fence. She didn't need to. Her tension was a broadcast, a tight-band frequency of controlled fear.
— He will come, — I said, my voice low. It was a statement, not a reassurance.
— Men like Zoltan Haas always come for the things they want, — she replied, her breath a small white cloud. — It is the things they do after they get them that is the problem.
A distant ship’s foghorn moaned, a lonely, gut-deep sound that the fog seemed to drink. From the same direction, a radio on some unseen vessel crackled, a faint burst of static that died as quickly as it came. It was the sound of the world fraying at the edges.
A figure took shape in the mist, moving toward us. It was a thick, shambling form. Too broad for Haas. My body went tight. I shifted my weight, putting myself between the shape and Petrova. The figure drew closer, resolving into a dockworker in a heavy coat, his face lost in the shadow of a wool cap. He walked past us without a glance, his heavy boots thudding on the wet planks, and disappeared again into the fog.
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. Petrova remained motionless.
Then another shape appeared. This one was different. It was hunched and wiry, moving with a scuttling gait that was unmistakable. Zoltan Haas, the black-market dealer who traded in secrets and artifacts, emerged from the gray, his face a pale smudge under a dark hat. He stopped five meters away, his small, dark eyes darting between us, the satchel in Petrova’s arms, and the escape routes.
— You look like you've had a busy morning, — Haas rasped, his voice like stones grinding together.
— We have what you want, — I said, cutting through the pleasantries. There was no room for them here. — Do you have what we need?
Haas’s thin lips pulled back in something that might have been a smile. He gave a slight nod. I looked at Petrova. She stepped forward and placed the satchel on a damp crate between us. The price of our insurance, paid for with her knowledge and my blood.
I opened the flap. The Iskra-7 Memory Core sat nestled in the bag’s lining, its interlocked brass spheres gleaming dully in the flat, gray light. The web of golden wires at its heart seemed to pulse with a faint, internal energy. Haas leaned forward, his eyes narrowed. He didn't touch it. He just stared, a connoisseur appreciating a rare and deadly vintage. The air around the core seemed to shimmer, a faint visual static that was the signature of its power.
After a long moment, he nodded, a quick, bird-like jerk of his head. He was satisfied.
— A thing of beauty, — he whispered. He kicked a heavy, metal case that sat at his feet. It slid across the wet planks and stopped by my shoes. — As promised.
I knelt and unlatched the case. It was heavy, and the metal was colder than the damp morning air. Colder than it should have been. Inside, resting on a bed of worn black velvet, was the Aegis Conduit. It was not a machine of brass and wire. It was a solid block of something that wasn't metal or stone, a rectangle of absolute, light-devouring black. It had no seams, no controls, no markings. It was a piece of the void given form, a hole in the world you could hold in your hands. This was our victory. The tool that gave us a chance to fight back, to dictate the terms of the end.
I closed the lid. The click of the latches was loud in the sudden quiet.
Haas picked up the satchel containing the prototype core. He didn't look inside again. He clutched it to his chest and took a step back, already melting into the fog.
— Pleasure doing business, — his voice rasped, already seeming to come from a great distance.
Then he was gone. The fog swallowed him whole, leaving nothing behind but the smell of salt and the heavy weight of the case in my hand. The transaction was complete. We had the prize.
The pier was silent again, the world shrunk back to our small circle of wet wood and gray air. The muffled sounds of the city seemed a thousand kilometers away.
The water lapped against the pilings, a slow, steady rhythm. The fog drifted in lazy currents, cold and clean against my face.
