Gods Under The Dome

10.3

《No Second-Guessing》

¤

Marava's eyes glimmer as they roam over something that isn't, for the first time, Quint. It's a little unbelievable - her mouth agape, her eyes widening to saucer diameter as they canvas the arched ceiling, metallic rails, and the bullet-shaped car with its shattered windows and bucket seats. She wets her lips and reaches out to lay her hands over the name R33. A reverent sigh escapes her lips. Quint tightens his hold on her waist.

She blinks, as though his touch has jostled something loose in her brain. "It's wondrous," she says, peering at the train car. "You can almost smell the history."

Tujo waves a hand in front of his face, frowning. "Smells like piss."

Marava growls. "This is history untouched by the FUA." She's on her tiptoes, stretching her body to its limits, to reach into the car and graze one of the hanging, still-intact leather loops. "This is how our ancestors lived, how they traveled from one place to another."

"You can learn all that on the Network," Lilly says. "We have full access to unaltered history."

Marava snorts as she retracts her hand through the tiny, oblong window frame. "You think that what we see isn't filtered? That our searches aren't logged and monitored? That none of us got flagged for researching a topic the Council deemed 'unhealthy'?"

Marava turns and runs her hands over the ruins of a brick column. A film of dust pales her fingertips. "There's no way for us to know what is the undiluted truth unless we see it for ourselves. This," she arcs her hand over her head. "Is undiluted truth."

"Well," Tujo slumps back against the wall. "The undiluted truth smells worse than the Aviary's sewer system."

"Same," I say ambling past Tujo. I smile at him, but he still refuses to acknowledge me. Whatever betrayal he'd felt from last night, seemed to have lodged itself pretty deep. His resentment toward me could almost - almost - rival Marava's. "I'll take the perfumed half-truths any day."

Della steps past us ogling Liars and motions toward the second car. A line of Titav members, like diligent worker bees, scurry between the two railway lines, huge plastic bins cradled in their arms.

"I thought places like this had been blocked off."

Della smirks and slows her pace so I can catch up. "They have, officially."

I raise my eyebrow, and look at an old sign, hanging askew at the far end of the massive tunnel. Rust has eaten through most of the metal, and the paint's chipped off, but it's a remnant, a centuries-old testimony to the citizens of old New York. "And unofficially?"

"A few maps float around the Net, available for purchase." She places her hands behind her neck and yawns. The sound echoes in the cavernous space.

"And so you bought a map, and scoped out every possible point of entry?"

Della chuckles. "Even if I sent the whole Collective there wouldn't be enough. Luckily, people on the lower sects love some added income and are willing to commit to some seedy transactions."

"How long did it take?"

As we near the train car that's the epicenter of the Collective's hub of activity, I notice one of them, carrying two of the blue bins in between his tree-trunk thick arms, is Sin. He must feel my eyes on him, because he cranes his head over the top of the bin, and gives me a slight tilt of his chin.

Della whispers, "Forks over there stands out a little too much for today's mission. Good pack mule though."

I nod. While the middle and top sectors were known to be ad-less, as the most money was made marketing dreams to the lower sector residents, sometimes causing whole companies to buy a sector and re-brand it with a slew of the company's products, Sin was still a good foot and a half taller than average Aviary height. He'd stand out if you shot him into space. With the amount of Militia stomping around, it was best to keep him on reserve.