Finally, there was her combat jacket. Padded, but not too thick, the dark green was splotched with so many stains that it appeared camouflaged like her trousers. But in three years, Clara hadn't found a jacket of equal quality to replace it with. Every pocket was perfectly placed, deep enough to store ammo, or shallow enough to quickly draw tools. Clara pulled the jacket on and spun around in the mirror, imitating drawing knives, firestarters, grenades, and flares. She felt ready for anything.
Something caught her eye from the open lockbox–the glint of polished steel–her first-ever knife. She must have opened more than a thousand cans with it back in England while she and Andy scampered from one place to the next, surviving in the wreckage of an ever-crumbling society. There were other mementos in the lockbox, most of them books: stories about war and great leaders, soldiers and traitors, spaceships and chariots, some of it history, some of it fiction–Clara sometimes struggled to tell the difference, which often added to the fun of reading them.
Clara emptied the contents of her rucksack onto the bed. Inside was the bare minimum they needed to survive on the road: a thin waterproof tarpaulin and string to build a shelter; a small medical kit, separate from their main one in the trunk of the jeep, stocked with potassium iodine and chlorine tablets; a waterproof container with five different tools to light a fire, each necessary for a specific situation; a distress beacon, flashlight with a red filter, fold-up knife. Finally, a pouch contained one bullet of every caliber she had come across. It was a mercenary superstition: you never wanted to be just one bullet short to do a job.
More than just the essentials, Clara's backpack contained an array of gizmos which might become useful in the field. There was a compact motorized grappling hook with thirty meters of wire, a silent key-hole drill for peeking through walls, a few spark plugs for smashing windows, a bump-key for opening locks, attachable climbing spikes, and of course, duct tape. Furthermore, the rucksack had spaces for water bottles and rations, and a dozen other pouches for bits and bobs. Clara straightened the contents out on her bed, smoothing out the linen-stuffed mattress so that her items would hold their places. It reminded her of preparing her expansive pencil kit for school as a child.
Once she was satisfied that everything was in its right place, she packed the items back into her rucksack and tucked it beneath her bed. The dizzying wave of relaxation that swept over her. Lying down, she set the alarm of her wrist terminal to seven o'clock and almost immediately fell asleep.
When the alarm buzzed, Clara rose groggily. The last three weeks on the road were catching up to her. She needed a good night's rest.
"Later," she mumbled, getting out of bed, fixing her hair, and setting off. Quadra's chalk streets shone in the waxing moonlight like a wild landscape–trickling streams flowed between dark boulders, gathering at the dam-like perimeter and spilling out into the road beyond as a river of white. Beacons of firelight were scattered like orange stars, swimming in the mountain's basin and rising high up the sides of the rocky wall, reaching for their silver brethren in the sky. The hum of fuel generators reverberated beneath a chilly sporadic wind, which shook the timber foundations beneath Clara's feet, coaxing the scaffolding skyrise into singing a creaky melody, which made Clara grip the handrail a little tighter as she descended.
Ahead, soft golden light permeated the Harmonies' headquarters–electrical bulbs, a real flaunt of wealth. The doors opened on the reception, where a boy dressed in a waistcoat led her to a large dining room. Although they had been working with the Harmonies for a few months now, Clara had never been to this section of the mansion before. The exterior wall was made of stone–grey boulders from the mountainside, cemented between tree-trunk posts. A fireplace was ablaze in the opposite wall, wearing its chimney like a granite top hat. On the mantelpiece, a small black box blinked with LED lights; Clara recognized from her grandparent's house long ago–a converter that took the waste heat and smoke from inside a chimney and converted it into energy. A dynamic, sultry song was playing from electrical speakers, sung by a man with a smooth, charming voice.
"Welcome, Clara." Theodor the tailor stood by the doorway, fingers entwined over the head of a cane. He wore a dark maroon suit and a black top hat, with a single flower poking out of his breast pocket. "Blue Eyes sends his regards that, regretfully, he cannot be here." Theodor carefully withdrew the flower and handed it to Clara. "But he wanted you to have this."
The flower was a dainty thing with three white drooping bell-shaped heads. "Thank you. Am I to assume this is our advance on the job?"
Theodore smiled, motioning towards a large oak dining table in the center of the room; its polished wood caught the firelight like crystal amber. "Let me introduce you to the others."
Seated at the table was a Harmony woman, impeccably dressed with her black hair coiled above her head in complete submission. Clara could only just about tie hers into a ponytail or bun. It would be nice if, next time she met with Old Blue Eyes to complete their mission, she could dress up fancy like the women he employed.
Clara shook herself. She had been daydreaming and missed Harmonies' name. Seated at the table beside her was a tall man with unruly sandy hair and a thick golden watch on his wrist. He wore jeans and a black t-shirt with a faded graffiti design. A padded denim jacket was slung over the back of his chair, a simple semi-automatic pistol visible at his hip. He acknowledged Clara, then returned to his meal of roasted meat, bread, and yogurt. Clara abruptly shut her mouth as her stomach gurgled, clearing her throat to mask the sound.