Diggory was three-quarters of the way along the Eastern Main Line, just past the 51-kilometer marker. Once home to the aforementioned Bronze Moon pack, it had been redeveloped in the early 1970s into one of the sprawling dormitory suburbs of Corviston. Once only a platform and a simple station building where the Bramble Glen & Bronze Moon and the Waburan Creek mainlines met, it had been extended piecemeal over the years into a sprawling interchange, as the Waburan Creek mainline became the Eastern Main Line of the New Carinthia Railways and was quadruplicated and electrified. 

It was even busier now that most property inside the Ring Road was unobtanium for mere mortals and that most people living in the suburbs had finally realised that driving into the city was too much of a hassle. The projections were grim, and he knew about that more than most, having had a hand at making them during his time at his internship. At least train fares had been frozen for the last 10 years.

Brendan passed through the ticket validators and joined the crowd of people already lined up on the platform. The old mercury-arc lights overhead gave the place a surreal glow in the dim early morning light. Corviston Transport had already drawn up the tenders for their replacement- he had seen them personally- but it would be two years minimum before they came along.

He did not have to wait long until the rolling susurrus of the rails that indicated a incoming train. A set of headlights pierced the fog clouding the horizon. The platform fell silent. In the absence of noise Brendan felt even more vigilant. Even in the busy station, he felt the sensation of being watched. He looked furtively to his left, where the feeling was strongest. Nobody stood out in the crowd. He stared for a few seconds more before withdrawing his gaze.

The sound of brakes filled the air. Two motor carriages top-and-tailed a mishmash of carriages of varying ages, with another motor carriage thrown in the middle to give it a bit more oomph. Ten cars in total. Some of the carriages were standing room only. He could see that from on the platform.

Brendan selected the oldest-looking carriage, pushing through the crowd. It predated the Corviston Transport era by a considerable margin. The Bramble Glen & Bronze Moon Railway shields were covered by poorly applied Corviston Transport decals. The forest-green paint was faded and visibly blistering under the window frames. He could see people disembarking simply to make way for the newcomers on some of the other carriages.

Owing to its outward appearance the interior of the carriage was comparatively empty, and he managed to find a seat without too much trouble. The wine-red vinyl benches had been buffed to a patent-leather level shine by thousands of bottoms, gleaming under the glow of the old bullseye ceiling lights. Some of the window fittings had a few too many layers of paint on them, but all the hard points were spick and span. It was a far cry from the dark old days when trains ran every 40 minutes off-peak, smelled of piss and had broken windows, but it was obvious that commuter trains were still the redheaded stepchild if you also caught the trams and buses on a regular basis.

Further down the train the conductor blew his whistle, leaning out of his cabin. The crowd of people left behind, resigned, stood back. The air brakes sighed as they released and the train started with a jolt. He could hear the roar from the motor car in front of them, faintly, emanating from the half-open intercarriage door.

From the corner of his eye he noticed someone take their seat in the end of the carriage. The stubble, the cheap-looking clothes, the swagger. A pack wolf. Maybe he was new to it. Maybe it was deliberate, just to let him know they had an eye on him. Either way it meant the same thing. He ran through the options in his head. He could get off at the next station and switch to a bus. Maybe just another train.

Brendan got up and slowly made his way through the rows of seats. The train was moving at a decent clip now, cutting through swathes of cookie-cutter brick townhouses the same as the one he lived in. The old equaliser bar bogies rode quite well, even at high speed, and he felt secure on his feet even with the mild swaying.

Reaching the vestibule at the end of the carriage, he pretended to peruse a network map pasted on a side partition. At the edge of his peripheral vision, the guy had gotten up as well. That wasn't good. This train wasn't stopping until Boxelder Park, and that was nearly fifteen minutes away. He didn't have that much time.

Brendan opened the door to the next carriage. The whirling wind and the roar of the motor carriage in front hit him as he stepped into the gangway between the two carriages. Not much more than a metre below the narrow passageway the ground rushed past. The creaking of the couplers and the bridging plates below him was deafening. He could see the wide expanse of the four-track Eastern Main Line around him, cutting a wide ballasted swathe through the suburbs. He stepped out onto the side, on the ledge where the underframe protruded from beneath the body. He had no time to waste. The other guy was coming in here at any moment.

There was a whoosh and a blast of the horn from ahead as they passed through a station at over 70 miles an hour, overtaking a local train. I am not cut out for this, he thought as he dangled between carriages, watching the vegetation on the side fly past. The ground rushed past below him. He consoled himself with the thought that maybe he had got it wrong. Maybe the guy had nothing to do with him. Maybe he was just being paranoid.

The carriage door creaked open. The guy emerged, in slow motion. He felt his gut drop. Despite the proximity, Brendan wasn't particularly afraid. Weapons were discouraged in their culture, especially firearms. If they were to fight they would do it with their bare fists.

The train entered a curve and slowed down slightly, flanges squealing. If he needed to jump it would be slightly less dangerous. The train pitched and yawed with the track imperfections. Nothing special, nothing he wasn't used to. But it was clearly unsettling to the newcomer.

The guy was saying something to him. Brendan struggled to hear what he was saying over the whistling wind buffeting around them. He wished he had learned to lip read. Not that it would be of much use with the train jerking around.

The guy was making preparations to climb the same way as he did. Shit. Brendan edged even closer to the edge. He could feel the wind buffeting further ahead. He crouched down low to minimise the chance of someone seeing him jump.

The curve was starting to straighten out. He could feel the train accelerating, the rattling of the coupler. The other guy was almost upon him.

The driver blew the horn as they approached another station, throwing the stranger off guard. Brendan jumped, curling into a ball as he plunged into a thicket of knotweed, which thankfully broke his fall. The train rushed past, clickety-clacking over a rail joint not far from his resting place.

He stayed curled up in the bushes until the soughing of the rails had well and truly passed. This was easily the dumbest thing he'd done in years. Dropping out felt like solving a calculus equation compared to this.

***

The offices of Berger and Marshall were located in an unassuming renovated rowhouse in one of the more highly sought after quarters of the Old Town. Berger had picked it up for a song, back in the mid-80s, when the old town was mostly junkies, university students and poor immigrant families. The interior was completely divorced from the outside, which had been kept as original as possible; it had been completely stripped bare and redone. On top, a rectangular addition, clad entirely in plate glass, had been added, which almost seemed to float on top of the century-old masonry below. Brendan had made it on time, despite the slight delay.

While the others were keeping the staff impressed with their well-rehearsed routine, he snuck upstairs, after having excused himself by asking for a toilet break. He had a working knowledge of the layout from the functions they'd attended at Floriana's behest, but the last one had been over a year ago and he was a bit rusty. The place had gone through a bit of a touch-up since then which added to the confusion. He'd also looked at a few photos, helpfully posted on their website, just to jog his memory, and a few he had found on the Facebook page of the contractor for the renovation. It had taken a bit of time to piece everything together, but eventually he knew it well enough to somewhat coherently visualise it in his mind.

The office was at the end of the corridor, surrounded on all four sides by glass. He hesitated for a moment. It was a dead end. He could see his colleagues below him. If someone came up here he was done for. He felt extremely exposed, like he was going to be sprung at any moment. He pushed the intrusive thoughts to a far corner of his mind. He needed to do this.

To his left, there was an alcove with a folding screen rather incongruously placed there. That seemed like an odd design move, but maybe there was some kind of reason for it. Maybe the interior designer had skipped a corner. Oh well. Now he had an escape plan, even if it was a spectacularly flimsy one.

The door was ajar. He let the faint sounds of conversation below him calm his nerves for a moment.

He sucked in a breath and went in.

The office was exactly as he remembered it, except the plants had changed somewhat. Perhaps they couldn't keep them alive. The minimalist mahogany desk, the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Pictures of him with the Prime Minister, other very important people, stuff.

The desk took pride of place in the centre of the office. In the corner, there was a children's play area, a small round table cluttered with toys. Floor-to-ceiling windows covered the entirety of the walls, giving panoramic views of the seven hills.

Brendan picked up the address book, a slim leather-lined affair, sitting at the corner of the desk. 23/254 Briarleaf Rd... no, these were just the houses of rich people. He kept on flipping. He recognised some of the names. Many of the addresses seemed to be in the Independent Territories. Most of them. Many of the alphas he had seen on the night were probably listed here.

He stopped and thought for a moment. Berger wouldn't put something so important in something lying so prominently on his desk, in a place that any lowly intern could, and probably would on a daily basis, access. It had to be somewhere more discreet. 

He opened the nearest drawer. A humidor, some charging cables, something in a velvet pouch. He briefly entertained the thought of looking further in but his gut instinct told him what he needed would not be found here. He shut the drawer and opened the one below it. Empty.

Brendan knew his time was running out. All of a sudden he was sweating. He knew that it wouldn't be too long until someone came up here. He needed to wrap this up before his anxiety got the better of him. He looked around the room, at anything that might conceal a hidden compartment, or a secret hiding place. The walls were bare white.

He looked at the kids' play area. There it was, in plain view, amongst the lego bricks and dolls. A pink secret diary, with a tiny combination lock. Brendan knew that this was ridiculous, but his time was running out and with that, his options.

In his head he recited to himself the old lockpicking spell, the first thing they had learned in Beidzner's class. This was as simple as a spell could get, teetering on the edge of what could be considered magical. All the better, as it left as little residue as possible. It was everything Beidzner valued in a spell; simple, elegant, deadly effective. He had spent years trying to make it even simpler.

He whispered the familiar sequence of words into the keyhole. The tumblers fell into place with a satisfying snick and it fell open easily.

There was nothing in it. Just a child's drawings. He flipped to the end. Nothing. He felt the padded covers, felt for something in the foam-padded vinyl. A slim pocket on the inside of one of them. He slipped his fingers through, prying a gap in the plastic. there was a small piece of paper inside. He pulled it out.

There were three addresses listed. Alpha George's beach house in New Brighton, which was not that far from the site. No wonder he wanted it there. The other two were both in or near Wythaven. He memorised them.

There was more paper stuffed behind, more than he thought could fit in such a tiny space. pulling them out, he carefully unfolded the first one. Dates and times. They seemed to be in the future. The first one was in less than two weeks. He didn't unfold the other ones, just flicked through them. Construction invoices. Drawings. Lots of them.

He recognised them from his construction class at uni. These were piles. 60 cm diameter. He assumed these were the same piles he had seen in the renderings that night.

Someone was coming up the stairs. His heart began to the race. Only on the bottom rungs, by the sound of it. He had maybe a few seconds. Careful to leave everything in the same position he had found it, he folded up the papers, shut the diary, propelled himself out of the office and ducked into the alcove, behind the folding screen. He held his breath.

It was just the cleaner. As soon as she had shut the office door behind her, he extricated himself from his hiding spot and headed back down.

Downstairs, Floriana was chatting up a storm with David. They did not pay the slightest heed to him discreetly rejoining the group.

Where were you?" Wilbur's tone seemed almost accusatory, and for the briefest moment Brendan panicked, but then he calmed down.

"Nowhere. I just had to go to the toilet."

***

The first address was a house in Ilfracombe, one of Wythaven's wealthy seaside suburbs, right up by the cliffs of the sea.

"Sold last time in 2014 for $1.3 million." Adrian whistled, reading off the webpage. They were in the back of his car in the basement parking lot of his apartment complex. checking up on what Brendan had found on his laptop.

"I think it's a short-term rental now."

"So my guess is that it's their base. For their, uh, activities."

"Spell-breaking and all that."

"Yeah."

The other address, as it turned out, belonged to a warehouse in an industrial estate in the far west of Wythaven. Brendan surmised it was for the construction-related aspects of the project. "How are we going to get into there?"

They looked at the street view. The estate had been bare dirt a decade ago, and everything had an aggressive sheen of newness to it. High fences with barbed wire were everywhere. There was a guard hut next to the rather imposing steel gates. Brendan counted at least five security cameras.

He went back to the satellite image. There was a channel behind the factory. Concreted, with a thin rill running through the middle. It had probably been a dry creek bed before the place had been zoned as an industrial area. Brendan peered closer at the map. He could make out a thin streak running from the back of the factory grounds along the bed of the concrete channel. A sign of an outlet. A plan was forming in his mind.

"I know who we could ask for help." Brendan said cryptically. "He's got a long waiting list, though, so it'll have to be after our field trip."

"Who?"

"You'll find out."