The Commercial District.
More precisely, the Shelter’s Administrative and Economic Zone, but most call it simply the Commercial District.
Across the Hover River lay the cluster of government offices in the Administrative District. After the London Eye near the Westminster Bridge was demolished due to the height restrictions within the Shelter, the Amos Department Store—now the tallest and largest shopping center in the Shelter—became the Commercial District’s landmark more than a decade ago.
All the money in the Shelter flows into and back out of the Commercial District. It isn’t merely an area crowded with businesses, shops, and restaurants. By day its streets appear orderly under the artificial sun, but when night falls, an entirely different face emerges. Narrow alleys branch off like capillaries, and in those cramped thoroughfares every imaginable form of debauchery thrives.
Just a single bridge away stand the Shelter Police Department and other security agencies, yet the corruption deeply rooted in the Commercial District refuses to be eradicated. It isn’t that the district’s police officers neglect to crack down on illicit establishments—rather, no matter how furiously lower-ranking officers run themselves ragged, things rarely go as planned.
Even someone within the Police Department who could discipline subordinates with a single clearing of the throat, or a prestigious Shelter Supreme Court justice—so long as they remain human, they cannot escape desire. Psychological desire, social desire, the desire for self-fulfillment, or the pursuit of pure pleasure. The night Commercial District is a naked theater of every vice that feeds on human desire.
And on those streets with nowhere to hide, two men walked side by side.
“Please, stop making such a fuss.”
“I want to die.”
“If you kill yourself here, it’ll be a problem for me. If you must, do it somewhere I can’t see.”
“You never told me Hand Strip Poles was in a place like this.”
“That’s odd. I thought I warned you.”
“How was I supposed to know from ‘adults only’? And I’m legally an adult too!”
“Am I? I’d’ve sworn you were about sixteen.”
“That’s because I look young—no! What sixteen-year-old is my height? You’re messing with me!”
“Quiet. Don’t you see how weird the passersby look at us? I’m already in a foul mood from working nights; if you keep this up, I’ll just leave you somewhere and go.”
“How can he be so calm?”
Hold on, Raimund Geppert. Just a little longer. Raimund wiped his face.
Until now, Raimund’s domain had been the Residential Districts, not the Administrative and Economic Zone. He’d avoided operating at night—patrols were more frequent after dark, and a wrong move in the Commercial District could land him falsely accused in a holding cell.
Safety first. Even with his checkered past of petty crimes, he’d never been caught by the police. And yet here he was, working a night job in the Commercial District.
“How much farther?”
“Stop whining. Are you going to cry like a five-year-old who wants to be carried because his legs hurt?”
“Damn it! I didn’t say that!”
Raimund just wanted to get out of here fast. Neon signs in every color flickered along the narrow street—barely wide enough for four abreast. Lines twisted into shapes and letters, names of shops, a blue cocktail glass, a face winking seductively, a swaying leg.
Groups of people clustered everywhere. At one trash can a group snickered lewdly; uncomfortable at the sight, Raimund pointed.
“What’s that? A tobacco store?”
“Something like it. They sell things like concentrated hemp oil instead of cigarettes.”
“What do you use that for? Medicinal?”
“When you concentrate hemp oil, it acts like a narcotic.”
Raimund hesitated at the nonchalant answer. Blue smoke billowed inside the shop. Outside, propped against the window blinds, several figures lounged—and one drooled. Raimund instinctively clung to Friedrich.
“Shouldn’t we report that?”
“I’m sure many good citizens like you have filed complaints for about five years. But apart from fines, nothing ever happens.”
“Why not?”
“Because so many people feel stifled in the sealed Dome. Including in the First Residential District.”
The First Residential District. If the Second is a high-end town for professionals, the First is another world entirely. Trams pass through, but tall walls hide the homes. Delivery people for newspapers and groceries must pass the scrutiny of private guards hired by each household. The residents are wealthy enough to enjoy all sports and leisure in their own yards, so they seldom venture out. In other words, First District residents likely work in the central Shelter or nearby—worlds away from someone like Raimund.
He understood Friedrich’s point: drug dens, gambling halls, and houses of ill repute—what’s left? Illegal weapons, a circus taming dyed-maned lions? Nothing would surprise him now.
At last they arrived before a building glowing with yellow bulbs spelling out:
[ HAND STRIP POLES ]
By comparison, this sign looked almost wholesome—like something on Broadway. The white façade mimicked nineteenth-century architecture. Its tall ceiling and long narrow windows behind thin curtains emitted a soft, wavering light. Against the street’s aura of vice and pleasure, the club’s elegance seemed out of place.
“Do you know what this place is?”
“A little.”
“It’s not dangerous? They’re not selling drugs, trafficking weapons, or kidnapping people to sell off…?”
“You imagine the strangest things. Just know it’s not that kind of place.”
“Really? That’s a relief. It did look decent from the outside.”
Raimund breathed easier. No addicts shooting up here—thank goodness. Friedrich nodded, then asked,
“Want to go in first?”
“Me? Why?”
“It’s not dangerous. Someday you’ll have to deal with an anomaly alone—will you always hang back behind me?”
“I guess not.”
“Then go in with confidence. This assignment is only to confirm if an anomaly is observed inside. It’s not like Labyrinthos, where the anomaly’s presence is certain.”
“By El Draco’s telescope?”
“You understood correctly. Go on.”
Raimund inhaled deeply. Annoying as Friedrich was, his logic was sound. Raimund retrieved his eyeglasses from his pocket, put them on, and bravely pushed open the door.
Once Raimund vanished inside, Friedrich stood silent, counting inwardly: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7…
Before he reached eight, the door flew open and something tumbled out. Disheveled blond hair, crooked glasses, green eyes unfocused, cheeks and ears flushed red. Half in panic, Raimund glared at Friedrich and shouted,
“You bastard—!!”
Friedrich covered his mouth but couldn’t stifle his snicker. Ha. Rookie.
As its name suggests, Hand Strip Poles was a den of the lowest depravity. Raimund couldn’t believe it had obtained a business license, but Friedrich said the club belonged to some wealthy family’s playthings. Inside, they sat together, Raimund’s gaze fixed stiffly on the molding in the ceiling corner. When a server handed him a menu board, he dared not look at the attendant’s attire. Meanwhile Friedrich studied the menu with polite attention.
“Why not relax a little? You look like you’ve got a ‘suspicious person’ label on your forehead.”
“There’s nothing relaxing about being in a place like this.”
“We’re here to work, not play.”
“Still!”
“Do you think anomalies only appear in certain places? Get a grip. There’s a fitting saying for you.”
“What is it?”
“‘Lewdness resides within one’s own heart.’”
Friedrich’s jibe in his menu struck Raimund’s chest like a blow. His face still burned.
“I’ll have a Cuba Libre. And you?”
“Just water.”
“Ah.”
Friedrich flagged a passing server.
“One Cuba Libre, and one non-alcoholic martini, on the rocks.”
Raimund thought: water? What’s that? The server wondered: weird guy? Yet seeing Friedrich’s calm face, they nodded and went about their work. The server confirmed the order cheerfully and left. Raimund averted his eyes from the server’s legs, exposed by the short uniform.
The club was dark overall. Small sofas and tables like the one they occupied were scattered about, and patrons could sit wherever they liked. Above, out of reach, iron cages held limp dancers gripping poles and swaying. Spotlights on the dancers were so bright they naturally drew the eye.
“Do they make money by dancing and serving drinks?”
“I’m not the owner—how would I know? But I do see something interesting.”
“What?”
“The person on the red sofa in that left corner is the deputy councilor’s second daughter. Don’t look. Next to her sits the nephew of the Shelter News CEO—though I’m not entirely certain.”
“Really?”
“Given the notable clientele, the club likely offers more than just dance and drinks. Something bigger.”
“Like in that other place you pointed out?”
“That was more of a commoner’s market open to all. This is like a members-only club displaying gourmet ingredients.”
How far will humans sink? If one can sleep with a full stomach and warm bed, isn’t that enough?
Raimund eyed the dancers under the gaudy lights, their bodies clinging to fabric, then turned back.
“I don’t want more details. We just need to confirm whether an anomaly is observed here.”
“That’s the gist.”
“Then we should look around.”
“While we wasted time chatting, I scoped out the layout. As guests, we can roam the ground floor unimpeded. What concerns me is upstairs.”
“Upstairs?”
Raimund spotted stairs along the wall, guarded by a burly man to keep unauthorized people out.
“Only regular patrons can enter. We’d be stopped 98 percent of the time if we tried now.”
“Is there no way up?”
“Well, we could scale the exterior wall, or one of us could distract the guard while the other slips by. Or we could spend time and credits becoming regulars—but—”
“I refuse. Absolutely not.”
“—we can’t drag an assignment out that long. So what other options remain?”
A server placed two glasses on their table: one dark brown liquid, the other ice water with an olive. Friedrich raised his glass with a courteous smile. Raimund felt a surge of dread.
“Do I have the right to refuse?”
“Do you? You swore to cooperate.”
“Damn it!”
“You cooked Cozet and Yokan alive to secure their release. You had nothing, yet you landed an external contract.”
Beyond the bar, two customers lay sprawled on a sofa, languidly drunk. Friedrich smirked.
“Now, display your great social skills. Prove your worth here.”