Another Line in the Ledger

[Sayne]

Blake had mellowed during the flight, Manhattan looming larger in the distance with every passing minute. Beaumont had been a bust, though a Data Broker there had pointed him in another direction. Hargrave had apparently maintained a source on Manhattan itself, someone named "Kent".

Blake knew of Kent. The man had assisted the Hollow Crown in the distant past--his father specifically--in a way that had earned him a rare privilege: the freedom to run his own network on the surface of Liberty’s capital world. That sort of reprieve was not given lightly.

His fellows on either wing fell back as they approached the planet, fading into the dense traffic around Manhattan but never straying far. As the trio arrived, each entered the docking ring independently and made their way toward the Harlem starport. Blake had a hunch about what the key’s message might be, but he needed confirmation from a contact he trusted.

The ships touched down on separate pads, each storage fee paid from accounts unconnected to the Hollow Crown. No sense alerting their friends in the LPI, after all. From there, they blended into the sprawl of the imposing starport, playing the part of wide-eyed tourists before angling off into a maintenance corridor just beyond the main concourse.

They walked for some time before coming upon an open manhole surrounded by flickering caution signs warning of active maintenance. The signs were little more than snarls--meant to keep passersby from looking too closely. The three men descended the ladder into the darkness and continued on, leaving the starport behind as they moved deeper underground.

Before long, traffic became visible on either side of the sewer channels. The men and women who passed through paid them no mind, despite the stark contrast in appearance. Most wore overalls, rags, or some combination of the two. Blake and his guards, by contrast, were clean, pressed, and orderly--out of place, but unchallenged.

When they reached their destination, it appeared at first glance to be nothing more than a small, forgotten shop. They waited as a short man emerged from a cordoned-off back room, the entrance shielded by hanging blankets. He took one look at Blake, nodded once, then vanished briefly before returning with a handful of tools.

“Mr. Rowan. A pleasure to see you this day. I would have come to you, had you summoned me.” He dipped his head in something resembling a bow.

“No need,” Blake said, waving it off. “I’ve got something that needs looking at--without prying eyes.”

The demure man raised a finger for silence and gestured toward a narrow passage threading between maintenance pipes. Blake turned and signed for his guards to keep watch. Each nodded and melted into positions around the cluttered space, keeping an eye on things while staying out of sight. Blake followed the man through a maze of twists and turns until they reached a cramped workbench.

“Fewer eyes down here. Not many can navigate this place without a guide. What do you have for me, Sir Rowan?”

“You can drop the ‘sir’ and the ‘mister,’ Kent,” Blake said. “I’m not my father. Just call me Blake.”

“An honor, Si--er--Blake.” He smiled faintly. “What have you brought me?”

Blake fished the key from his inner pocket and handed it over. Kent examined it carefully, turning it beneath the light, running a finger along the teeth. He set it on the bench, then glanced up at Blake as if waiting for its story.

“My father left it to me in his will--without so much as a hint as to its purpose. I’m hoping you can identify--"

“It’s not a key.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I’ve seen a great many keys in my time, Blake--and this isn’t one.” He handed it back. “Numbers don’t go that high. They cap at seven thousand per starport--and even those are rare as hell.”

Blake turned the object over in his hand, staring at the four-digit number stamped into the metal. Fucking Hargrave. Always with the riddles.

“I do recognize the number, though,” Kent added.

“You do?” Blake asked, a note of hope creeping into his voice.

“Sure. Plenty of folks around here do. Maintenance Node 7435’s an urban legend--even on Manhattan.”

Blake’s heart sank. Not Manhattan. Of course it wouldn’t be. Fucking Hargrave.

“Stories say Maintenance Hatch 7435 in New London is home to a Molly underground node, buried in the old subway system.” Kent smirked--so subtly Blake almost missed it. The briefest slip of an accent gave him away.

“Never took you for a Molly, Kent.”

“No idea what you’re talking about,” he replied with a grin. “Always a pleasure, Sir Rowan.”

Blake smirked and slipped him a few hundred thousand credits.

“For your services.”

Kent accepted the offering with both hands and bowed.

“Allow me to guide you back out, Blake.”

Blake smiled and shook his head.

“No need. I know my way. My best to your wife.”

“Of course, sir. Safe travels.”

Blake navigated his way out of the labyrinth and back to his men. He signaled that they were moving out--explanations would come later. As they disappeared into the flow of the underground, Blake couldn’t help but picture his father’s familiar grin.

You old bastard…what exactly did you leave me?

---

I've lost people who meant the world to me...and I'm still doing just fine.

I'm coming for everything they said I couldn't have.