The City Where Gray Rain Falls Chapter 6

The number of chairs decreased the higher one went and increased toward the bottom. Each chair placed in sequence had its designated owner.

Those who first built the city and their descendants, those who still wielded enormous influence and savored the world’s dwindling resources, owned even those chairs.

The specters of the city did not wander the streets, nor depart for other worlds like heaven or hell. They simply sat here in order and looked down upon the livestock teeming at their feet. Whether it was misfortune or fortune, the chair at the very top had remained empty for several years now.

Today’s session was not a formal convocation. It was merely a gathering to appease the party executives displeased by the appointment of a barbaric being from outside as Chief of Security. Perhaps because of that, about half of the seats were vacant.

The descendants of specters, with stiff necks, chins raised high, and overbearing gazes, filled the remaining half and waited for Samuel.

Opposite them, a single small chair had been prepared for the guest, or the subject of the hearing.

Unlike the chairs set upon the platform, it had no elaborate ornamentation, no backrest reaching the head, no splendid armrests. A piece crudely carved from common lumber, barely managing to function as a chair, serving only to create an incongruous sense of alienation unbecoming of the grand building.

Samuel did not even have the status to sit there. Though he was the Chief of Security responsible for the city’s safety, and though he was the adopted son of ‘Lot,’ who possessed a chair of his own in the Parliament House, albeit at the very bottom, he was not of city origin.

The spot assigned to him was directly in front of the door, set far apart from the party executives. There was nowhere to sit nearby, so he would have to stand until the business was concluded. But they would surely consider it a tremendous honor, the mere fact that he was permitted to be in the same space as them.

“Since your appointment as Chief of Security, you have produced no notable results to speak of. How do you intend to explain this?”

Among those seated in the third highest row, an old man with dull, washed-out red hair broached the main subject without hesitation, directing his words at Samuel.

It had only been a few weeks since he became Chief of Security; it was far too early to speak of results.

Especially considering the shabby performance of his predecessors, who had bungled both their duties and matters of political alignment, reprimanding Samuel was certainly premature.

In the end, their purpose was surely to loudly assert and discipline him: had the dog, meant to guard the front yard and eat the scraps its master threw, forgotten its place and become drunk on power, now coveting the food humans ate? Did it know who its master was?

“The party granted you a position far beyond your deserts. You should be grateful, loyal, and present the rebel leader’s head at once!”

An enraged voice rang out, and one after another, they all put on solemn expressions, offering tacit agreement. At their faces, which were even somewhat grave, Samuel nearly let out the mocking laugh he had been holding back.

“Why no answer?”

Those who knew how great the power they held was would, most of them, flatten themselves to the floor after a few harsh words, pathetically buying time by promising to do whatever was desired.

But Samuel, neither prostrating himself nor begging, with a consistently smiling face, spoke point by point about the Security Bureau’s future plans.

“Actually, I intend to root out the rebels who have infiltrated the city before long. Every last one, completely.”

“Hah!”

“Preposterous!”

Exclamations burst from the assembly, and someone raised their voice, shouting at Samuel.

“To make a promise you cannot possibly keep—do you dare deceive the party?”

What the new Chief of Security mentioned was a fantastical operation that no one had ever dared to plan, much less dream of succeeding. Since the city was built and the walls erected, cutting it off from the outside, they had never once completely eradicated the rebels.

Though they packaged themselves as perfect, the city was never perfect, and they had no choice but to depend on the outside.

The multiple gates and doors leading outside were firmly shut, and surveillance was strict, but they regularly had to go out to procure food and obtain necessary raw materials. No matter how vigilant they were, they could not completely prevent rebels from infiltrating among them.

It was the same with facilities like the sewers and waste disposal sites. All filth generated in the city was processed outside for reasons of hygiene and aesthetics. Whether it was washed away by water or carried out and incinerated, there was only a difference in method. In that process, a hole, however small, was bound to appear in the city’s security.

Rebel spies infiltrated through more diverse routes than the party leadership anticipated and easily disguised themselves as ordinary citizens. Unless they revealed themselves, there was no way to root them all out.

Because even the neighbor you always exchanged nods with, the friend who had lived next door for ages, the loyal citizen, the public official who knew his place and was grateful for the party’s mercy—among them, too, were rebel spies.

“…Chief Samuel.”

At the soft and low voice heard from behind them, the party executives, who had been murmuring about the new Chief’s absurd plan, fell silent all at once, as if by promise.

The only one who had addressed Samuel by his title, speaking up after the silence, was a diminutive old man who occupied the chair directly beneath the head seat that had long been empty.

His head was completely shaved smooth and shiny, and over his sun-blackened, wrinkled skin, he wore a garment that looked like nothing more than tattered cloth roughly wrapped around him. His name was ‘Gideon.’

In appearance, he seemed like a poor, insignificant old man one might encounter at the edge of the city, but he was the acknowledged second-in-command of the party and a figure with the power to decide the city’s critical affairs in place of the party leader, who was currently bedridden.

Since such a figure had opened his mouth, it was only natural for the lesser nobodies beneath him to shut theirs, even if they had differing opinions.

“What you’ve spoken of is something no one in history has ever succeeded in doing. Not just the Chiefs of Security, but none among us.”

“I am aware.”

Gideon, in a tone as if soothing a naive child, reiterated the gravity of what the new Chief had uttered, but Samuel, just as before, smiled faintly and merely reaffirmed that his words were no childish boast.

“…Anyone can make a promise. However, the city and the party do not extend tolerance to incompetence. As it happens, there is a regular report session in three months’ time. If you fail to produce any significant results by then, how will you take responsibility?”

As if trying to find a weakness to sink their teeth into, the eyes of the other executives flashed. With so many witnesses present, the promise made here could not be rescinded, nor could he later ask that it be dismissed as a slip of the tongue. It would provide a pretext for a purge, becoming a noose to tighten around his own neck someday.

Yet Samuel, pulling the corners of his lips up to their fullest, answered with a bewitching smile.

“If a hunting dog that fails to do its job dies by its master’s hand, that would be an honor, rather.”

∞ ∞ ∞

The basement floor of a building that smelled damp, as if the cement hadn’t fully dried.

A woman in a black uniform crossed the corridor, relying on the dim electric lights since not a sliver of daylight reached this place, yet moving as if accustomed to it.

Her voluminous hair swayed at her waist, and her narrow shoulders and slender waist gave a willowy impression, but the disciplined stride created by the hard soles of her military boots striking the rough floor revealed that she was no ordinary woman, but a military officer who had undergone grueling training.

With documents cradled in her arms, she passed through the corridor where rooms and doors of uniform size were arranged in regular intervals.

The doors had no nameplates or numbers whatsoever, so they had to be distinguished by sequence alone, but for the woman heading unhesitatingly toward her destination, it didn’t seem to be a difficult task at all.

Upon reaching the corner of the corridor, she pivoted precisely 90 degrees on the tip of her right foot, stopped before the door directly in front of her, and knocked.

“Come in.”