Unbroken Truth

By Lukas Lundh

"Lundh is absolutely an author I would return to and recommend." - Cheryl M-M, Goodreads reviewer. ★★★★★

 

"Where Lundh really excelled for me, however, was in his evocations of seedy city life on an inhospitable world." - Stephanie Jane, Literary Flits. ★★★★

 

"For fans of steelpunk, thrillers, or something completely different, dive deep into this book. It's an investment, but a worthwhile one." - Lauren, Goodreads reviewer. ★★★★

 

"I was blown away by the Tolkien-levels of detail included about the world and its lore." - Claire, Goodreads reviewer. ★★★★

 

Unbroken Truth is a spy thriller set in a rich dystopian fantasy world, where modern technology mixes with magical phenomenon and non-human species. It is the first book in the Gleam series.

 

Lentsay "Len" Yoriya is a disgraced detective in the Lansfyrd PD eking out a living in a crumbling city. Loving the wrong person means she is shunned by her colleagues, relegated to solving pointless crimes. With no family in the city, and with few friends, Len dreams of change.

 

When a high-profile murder shakes the city, Len sees a chance to get the promotion she needs to make a better life for herself and her partner. But the leads point to a larger conspiracy affecting the upcoming election, forcing Len to question whether the city she serves is worth protecting, and how much a promotion really is worth.

 

With time running out, and the future of the city at stake, Len must choose between the career she's longed for, and the people she loves.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lukas Lundh
• Release date: Nov 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393275381

Book preview

Chapter One

Len

LEN PULLED THE PARKING brake and sighed. Another pointless case solved, one of the hundreds stacked in a pile on her desk back at the station. Her reflection in the review mirror revealed that she looked as alive as she felt. The normal deep bronze of her skin looked ashen and the circles under her eyes were pronounced, especially in contrast to the vitiligo around her left eye.

She groaned and grabbed her filter mask and goggles from the passenger seat. The filter mask was a decent one, provided by the police, made of smooth white plastic with twin filters. She put it, and the goggles, on, and the world became temporarily grainy and red, but her eyes would soon adjust. She pressed her bowler hat to her head and stepped out of the car. The wind was mild, gently blowing the rust particles that saturated the air against what little skin remained exposed on her face. The rust coloured the world red, obscuring the mid-rise housing blocks, making them blurry behind the haze. In the distance, the outlines of the skyscrapers of downtown Lansfyrd were just barely visible above the skyway. A skyfreighter was slowly lumbering above the skyline, heading off in the distance.

Len started across the footpath towards a corner shop crammed into the bottom floor of the closest apartment mid-rise, announced by a neon sign saying Ominous Arms Street Convenience in bold Ardanian characters over the iron-grated windows. In true Southside fashion, the footpath was crowded by a multitude of different people, their faces obscured behind filter masks and goggles, and the hats hinting at their political affiliations. The exceptions were those with backswept horns that made hat-wearing a complicated proposition, and the eningas, who didn’t even need the masks and goggles. Eningas are humanoid insects, slightly taller than humans, and vaguely reminiscent of bipedal ants, or wasps. They had wedge-shaped heads with oval compound eyes and large mandibles, and they usually wore make-up in beautiful patterns and colours that contrasted the varying hues of their exoskeletons. Many were dressed like Lansholdans, in suits and coats, while the odd few dressed in colourful chequered tunics and cloaks, common in the closest eninga states.

A bell chimed as Len pushed the door to the corner shop open. The red dust already gathered inside stirred as another layer was added to it, and she could hear the bowing of a boarhead fiddle and low-pitched throat singing from a radio somewhere. She pulled her goggles up onto her hat, and her filter mask down so that it hung around her neck. The conditioned air was cool against her face, and the shop smelled of detergent and spices. The glare of fluorescent lights against the off-white floor tiles and pink walls made the place feel smaller than it actually was. Behind the counter, beneath a thin turquoise drape held to the side by unseen means, sat a large man with thick, backswept horns, leaning back in a pin chair with one leg over the other. His skin was several tones darker than Len’s, and his angular face ended in a protruding chin, enhanced by a goatee. His sand-coloured hair was braided and hung down his back, a fashion imported from the Ardanian Empire, and there was a thin silver chain suspended between his horns. He wore a simple pink shirt with the sleeves rolled up to over his elbows, and brown straight-legged trousers. He was focussed on the newspaper in front of him and did not pay Len any attention.

Len walked through the outermost of the two lanes in the shop, looking at the jars of pickled greens. She picked a jar of aubergine and continued down to the milk. There were several imported types of milk made of peas or soy that looked delicious, but they were all at least twice the price of the local red-tinted copperoat milk, so she grabbed a glass bottle of the local variety. Despite its strange metallic taste, it wasn’t too bad.

Morning, Tuerech-na, Len bowed and put the groceries on the counter.

Detective! Tuerech said and bowed where he sat, before folding up his newspaper and throwing it on the counter. Have you ever read such Hare-shit?

Tördek-na at it again? Len glanced at the paper. It was a cheap publication, mostly corporate ads and gossip about celebrities.

"Na, Tuerech chuckled. Only an Imperial could get away with na-ing Yolban Tördek-jho without getting beat up, but it’s still bold. I like it."

Those old Ardanian honorifics are Hare-shit, anyway, Len shrugged. I’d stop using them if people didn’t give me the side-eye for it.

Ah, they’re just rusting courtesy, detective, Tuerech said. It’s not so bad.

What did she say this time? Len said and gestured toward the newspaper. Tuerech waved dismissively with his hand and started putting numbers into the cash register.

She claims the treaty with the Iron Wallers is what caused the soaring property prices, Tuerech shook his head. Utter rust all of it, but what’s new under the White Sun, eh?

May it shine far from here, no? Len said. The White Sun was the Imperial seal of the Ardanian Empire, once rulers of the Dustlands, and now a declining memory clinging to their past around the edges of the Spiritsong Ocean, far to the east.

One thing, Tuerech frowned. Talie-na’s still working on that thesis on the Xetarans, right?

Technically the thesis is about the rust, Len said. But during Xetaran times.

Right, right, Tuerech said, and picked up a small box from beneath the counter, no larger than a shoebox standing on its side. I got this piece from a friend who thought she could flog it to a collector. Turns out the market for Xetaran junk is drying up, cause no-one wanted the damn thing.

Len opened the box and carefully lifted out its contents on to the counter. It was a statuette carved from a piece of greyish-green rockwood. Hauntingly lifelike, it depicted a bipedal lizard, a Xetaran, draped in cloth, and lifting what looked like a hilt over their head, maybe an empty torch? It was very well preserved, which made it hard to believe it might well be over a thousand years old.

You sure it’s genuine? Len said.

Turn it around.

Len did, and her eyes immediately started to water. Through the tears she could see the jagged lines of the Xetaran script, an ancient precursor to the Ardanian character system. Len swore and turned it back down. She put the statuette back in its box.

Crow, I really hate Xetaran, Len said. But the text seems genuine, all right. How much do you want for it?

Take it, Tuerech shrugged. I can’t sell it, anyway.

Come on, I know you and Eiredh-na are working your arses off, everyone in this rusting city is, Len said, and produced her wallet. Gotta give you something for it. How’s four hundred circles?

Tell you what, I’ll take three hundred, Tuerech said, and pressed something on the cash register so that it made a pinging sound. But you’re not paying for the milk or pickles. And I’ll throw in a pack of cigarettes.

Tuerech turned around and picked a pack of cigarettes from the shelf behind him and put it on the counter. The yellow packet said something in curving Sadaari letters and there was a picture of a domed building on it.

You know I’ve quit, Len said.

You don’t have to take it, Tuerech smiled wryly. Len scoffed and put three hundred-circle bills on the counter. She swiped the cigarettes and put them in the coat’s inner pocket.

I’ll need a bag for that, Len said and Tuerech laughed. He put the pickles and milk in a white plastic bag, and handed it to Len.

On the house, detective, he said. And thank you, now we might be able to pay for day care this week as well.

Boar’s grace, Tuerech-na, Len bowed and started for the door. Take care.

Boar’s grace, detective.

She pulled her dust gear back over her face, and pushed through the door. The bell marked her exit. Before her, in the distance, over the roofs of the apartments, rose the craggy cliffs of the Rustpeaks. The towering mountain range continued as far as could be seen in the obscuring haze in either direction from the city. On a rocky shelf, just a few hundred metres up, the blinking lights of the skyport were visible, enhanced by arcana to be clearly visible even through the thickest rust-haze. The sky around it was busy with aircraft and skyships, herded by police gunships.

Len walked across the footpath towards the detective car, trying not to get in anybody’s way. The car was a standard police issue: sleek, black, and aerodynamic, with the flat engine compartment taking up almost a third of the vehicle. It was made in Vaurland, an Ardanian dominion bordering the Dustlands, but it was a common look for cars in the city. She searched her pocket for the key, putting down the grocery bag between her feet. Something struck her back, and she stumbled slightly, grabbing the roof of the car to keep balance.

Hey! she said and turned around. An eninga, wearing a dirty white T-shirt and ragged jeans, was walking hurrying away from her at an angle. Watch your step.

Len felt her pocket and pressed her lips together. Her wallet was gone. Rusting shit. She turned around and spotted the eninga, now a good dozen metres away, trying to blend in with the crowd as she hurried down the footpath. Len started after her at a fast pace, dodging nimbly around people as she went. She was gaining when the eninga turned around, the light of a nearby neon sign reflecting in her large compound eyes as she realised Len was following her.

Lansfyrd PD! Len shouted as they both broke into a run. Stop!

People divided before her. It gave Len the advantage she needed, and soon the eninga was only a few metres ahead. Every footfall against the hard flagstones reverberated up Len’s shins into her spine. She needed better shoes.

The eninga took a sharp turn and disappeared down an alleyway. Len stumbled as she followed, almost losing her balance as her feet skidded on the smooth, rust-eaten stone. The eninga was stumbling over the detritus that littered the alleyway, sending squid-like floaters bobbing skywards, startled by the sudden motion. They emitted shrill thrilling sounds as they settled on the facades of the surrounding buildings.

LPD, Len drew her sidearm and pointed it against the ground before the eninga. Please turn around.

The eninga froze, holding her arms in the air. She slowly turned around, raising her small abdominal arms as well, visible through a slit cut in the T-shirt under her chest. Len frowned. The eninga’s exoskeleton was grey, with a leaf-green tinge, hinting at an age in the lower twenties, maybe even younger. She had a large patch of pinkish-white soft skin around her right eye, reminiscent of the soft skin of an eninga’s throat, chest, and belly, only the head should be completely covered by exoskeleton. She looked skinny, and her mandibles were opening and closing in a slow rhythm that showed anxiety. Most likely the air was filled with eninga chemo-tongue, but Len couldn’t smell it through her mask.

What’s your name? Len signed awkwardly in Trade-sign with one hand, while keeping the gun in the other. The eninga’s mandibles snapped shut and her antennae shot forward towards Len.

Rays Through Skyfall, the eninga signed with her abdominal hands while keeping her larger arms up. Len sighed. It sounded like a refugee name.

Stupid stealing from a cop, Len signed. You know you’d most likely get deported if you were charged.

Rays Through Skyfall didn’t answer. Of course the kid knew that. She most likely hadn’t known she was stealing from a cop. Len looked her over, there was nowhere she could hide a weapon, so Len holstered her own.

Come on, give me my wallet, Len signed. Rays hesitated for a second, but then produced the wallet from the pocket of her jeans and threw it to Len, who caught it with both hands.

I’m under arrest? Rays signed.

No, Len said and opened her wallet. She fished her last hundred-circle bill out of it and held it out to Rays. But try to keep out of trouble, will you? Go down to Ominous Arms Street Convenience, and ask Tuerech-na if he needs help in the store. Tell him Detective Yoriya sent you.

Rays Through Skyfall snatched the hundred-circle bill from Len’s hand.

So, I can go? she signed.

Yeah, whatever, Len signed. Take care, kid.

Rays Through Skyfall walked carefully backwards a few steps, before turning and running down the alley. She disappeared down the next road, out of sight.

Len sighed, and started back for the car. She was glad to see that her groceries hadn’t been stolen in her absence, and she unlocked the car and sat down. Time to get back to the station.

Chapter Two

Len

THE ELEVATOR SHUDDERED to a halt, and the doors opened to the fifth floor of the police building. The was a soft murmur of officers on duty, the clicking of typewriters, and the smell of coffee and tobacco hung thick in the air. Len got an instant craving for both.

She stepped out into a small hexagonal room, all lacquered dark wooden floors and fluorescent lights. There were two openings, the left one leading to the Criminal Investigations Bureau, and the right one to the Organised Crime Bureau. The space between the openings was decorated by potted plants and an oversized picture of Candlelight Hall, the flower bud-like building that was the seat of the Assembly, the Hold’s legislative council. Len continued through the left opening.

The Criminal Investigation Bureau room was large and contained the desks of all junior detectives. Dark wooden panels and dim lights gave the place an oppressive feel, but at least it was an open space, interceded only by wooden room dividers to give the detectives some privacy. There were offices and conference rooms along the far wall, a few of them were open, revealing the detectives working inside. The rightmost was the Bureau’s chief inspector’s, but it was closed. There was a row of windows towards the city down the side of the room, but the rust-haze didn’t let in much sun. Len walked down the room, past detectives and desks on her right, and the tables with coffee and pastries to her left. She walked over to her desk by the windows and left the grocery bag, together with her dust gear. Then she grabbed the copperoat milk and headed back to the coffee table.

Hey, Yoriya-na! Detective Dunteil shouted from her desk. Come over here for a minute.

Len held up an empty coffee cup so that Dunteil could see it before putting it under the carafe and pressing the top. The copperoat gave the coffee a reddish-brown colour, and she left the bottle on the table for the other detectives. She looked over the pastries and picked a small one with sandthorn jam in the middle and walked over to her colleague's desk.

Dunteil was a large woman, muscle and fat stretching her suit to its breaking point, her flat nose crooked, and her neck almost the same width as her square face. The grin she gave Len was infectious. She had her off-black hair trimmed short, just like Len.

What’s up, Dunteil-na? Len said and leaned on the desk, taking a bite of her pastry and sipping her coffee. The pastry was soggy, and the coffee was lukewarm, but it wasn’t too bad.

Hold up a second, Dunteil said, and spun around in her swivel chair. Tarntsei-na, get over here!

A thin, middle-aged man looked up from a desk several rows down. Len didn’t recognise the name, nor the face as the man made his way to them. He stopped on the far side of Dunteil, and bowed formally to Len, a gesture Len returned without straightening up. His face was long and angular and lined with what looked like years of worry. His black hair was cut short, and there were patches of grey at his temples.

Yeah? Tarntsei said.

This is that detective I told you about, Dunteil said.

A pleasure, the man said. I’m Tarntsei.

Yoriya, Len said. Are you new at the CIB?

Got moved over from Organised Crime last week, Tarntsei smiled, amplifying the lines in his face. Dunteil-na here took it upon her to make me feel welcome, for which I am much obliged.

Yeah, yeah, Dunteil waved her hand dismissively. Show her the pictures, grandpa, you’re just stalling.

Right, Tarntsei scoffed and shook his head. But he bowed and returned to his desk.

What’s this about, Dunteil-na? Len asked and put the last of the pastry in her mouth. What have you told him?

You’ll see, Dunteil said, and produced a pack of cigarettes. She put one in her mouth and held out the pack to Len.

Got my own today, Len said, and fished the pack of Sadaari cigarettes from her coat pocket, opened it, and put one in her mouth. Dunteil raised her eyebrows, and lit their cigarettes with her lighter, and flipped it shut.

Sadaari brand, no less, Dunteil said. Tuerech-na?

Len nodded and took a deep drag. Sadaari tobacco was good, and this particular brand had a touch of ginger in it that gave it a fresh feel. She relaxed a bit, but she knew this wasn’t going to end well. Smoking was a stupid habit.

Tarntsei returned with a folder in his hands. He opened it on the desk in front of them, and unclipped the photos in it. There were two of them, which he placed side by side on the desk.

So this, well these, are murders, Tarntsei said. Dunteil-na tells me you are familiar with the Black Cell societies?

Yeah, sure, Len got flashes of unpleasant memories from her time in homicide back in Fire of Spider’s Wishes, the city of her birth. She took another drag on the cigarette, and pushed it out of her mind. She looked at the pictures. One was of an Imperial woman, maybe Ardanian or Kureese, sitting on a sofa with one gunshot wound in her forehead, and one in her chest. She wore a vest and a shirt with rolled-up sleeves, revealing an intricate tattoo sleeve depicting mountains and flowers on her left arm. The other was of an eninga with a dark blue exoskeleton laying on the pavement somewhere. She had broad yellow lines painted across her face in simple, square patterns, highlighting the wedge shape of her head. She was wearing a high-collared black coat, left-breasted with rectangular silver clasps. The coat was trashed in the chest area, and stained by pale blue blood, most likely from multiple stabbings with a blade.

So, you say these are Black Cell killings? Len asked, and Dunteil scoffed loudly. The Black Cells were eninga-only crime societies, most hailing from the distant western eninga Grimblood Empire, that these days operated wherever there were eningas, and the demand for less-than-legal enterprises. In the Holds of the Dustlands they were mostly warring over territory with the Ardania-based Nothings-clans, once contained to the great cities of the Ardanian Islands, these days their violent under-kingdoms plagued all the old Ardanian holdings.

Oh, you saw that the moment you looked at them, Yoriya-na, Dunteil said, and slammed her large palm onto the desk with a bang. And I bet you know which societies, and maybe even a bit about why.

Len smiled and Tarntsei shook his head.

No way she could know that from just looking at these pictures, he said. No rusting way.

You’re right of course, Tarntsei-na, Len said with a chuckle, and took another drag on her cigarette. But, if I’d be allowed to make an educated guess, I’d say the Ardanian woman was killed by the Justice and Prosperity Society, most likely as a warning to a Nothings-clan. The eninga looks like she was killed for betraying the Golden Stem Society.

Crow and Spider, Tarntsei said in disbelief, and Dunteil chuckled. And all the other spirits, for that matter. You’re right. We never got a conviction for either, partly because it took us too long to figure out who’s who. How did you know?

First of all, Len said, despite what Dunteil thinks, I couldn’t have known these were Black Cell killings unless you had told me so.

Tarntsei let out a triumphant hah, and Dunteil gave Len a sour look. Len shook her head. She should have figured they had something riding on this.

You’ll still give me half, grandpa, Dunteil said. She still figured out what societies did them in.

Fair enough, Tarntsei smiled and produced his wallet. He turned back to Len who was preparing to stand up and leave. I still want to hear it, though. I might learn something.

Len stopped mid-motion and shrugged, sitting back down on the desk. She stubbed out her cigarette into Dunteil’s ashtray and produced another one. Dunteil lit it.

Right, so, the woman was a Nothing, judged by that tattoo, no idea which gang, but I do know the Nothings don’t like leaving bodies around. If she was offed by one of her own, you would have found her in pieces. Besides, you told me these were Black Cell killings, so yeah, Len said. She tapped the cigarette against the ashtray. Out of the three Black Cell societies operating in Lansfyrd, the Justice and Prosperity Society is the only one that considers murder a last resort measure.

How so? Dunteil said.

I heard they were founded as a legit business enterprise back in Grimblood before some breeder forced them underground, Len said. They’re not above killings, but they don’t like it, and they tend to do it privately, in people’s homes. And they’re thorough, but not brutal.

Fits the bill, Tarntsei said and looked at the photo of the dead woman again. He shook his head. Why in Heaven’s name aren’t you on homicide, Yoriya-na? Or Organised Crime?

Len shrugged, but Dunteil’s face darkened, and she slammed her palm into the desk again, making Len jump.

It’s rusting racism, is what it is! Dunteil said, loud enough for other detectives in the room to look up from their desks and glance at her. Len nodded to them politely, silently asking them to go on with their