catalyst
ˈkat(ə)lɪst/
noun
a substance that increases the rate of a chemical reaction without itself undergoing any permanent chemical change.

"The sunsets here have always been the best," Furey said quietly, looking out the window of the car as it bumped its way down the wide, dusty road between apartments and villas and palms.

The car had once been a prestigious vehicle: large and long, with leather seats and a sunroof and fancy automatic windows. Now it was filthy, a film of oily grime sitting atop everything. Running your finger down the window glass left a smear. "You've been here on the other side?" I didn't think the driver spoke the same language, but didn't want to take any chances. Not just yet.

Furey nodded. "I moved around a lot as a kid. I lived in Mumbai for a few years. Been through there a couple times for work."

The meeting had gone down at a huge market, which wound for miles around a hillside, narrow lanes turning back on themselves like a cobweb designed by a drunk spider. It only took about a minute for me to be completely turned around. Stalls lined the streets, even where it was super narrow, selling all kinds of things and grouped into themed areas. One twisty street was packed with live animals tied up in cages, fresh blood flowing between paving slabs. Another displayed row after row of the freshest, lushest fruit I'd ever seen - I didn't even know what half of it was. The smells signalled what was coming up next, especially as we approached the spice stalls, with their iridescent powders piled into high pyramids. Those guys wouldn't want a strong wind blowing through. We'd been told to wait at an open air cafe nestled between adjacent alleys of fabric merchants.

We sat on stalls sipping tea and wondering if our contact was going to show. I sat silently watching the bustle of the market. There were some tourists but it was mostly locals, haggling furiously. It was funny watching the occasional out of town visitor get completely shafted on the price without even realising. The market was covered, sometimes with wooden boardings, other times by deep red sails that were supported by an enormous wooden lattice. The sun was kept at bay, glinting enviously around the edges of the roof, hunting for a way in.

The guy who showed up was tusked which, as you know, hits a particular chord with me. This particular specimen was especially fine: his tusks had been left long, and had been chiselled into beautiful geometric patterns, swirling down their length as they protruded out of his mouth and down the sides of his chin. There were all kinds of tusked genotypes from 1943 and I wasn't especially fussy, but I'd never actually known anyone from this specific genodate. He looked like a movie star.

"You're Kay," he stated.

"Hello," I said automatically, before realising that you never say 'hello' at a covert meet-up. Such an amateur. I only barely restrained myself from asking how he was doing. "You're Kandak? I was told I'd be meeting Kandak."

"Then that's me," he said, smiling. He snapped his fingers and the staff immediately brought him a freshly brewed pot of tea, which I'm pretty sure had just been about to go to someone else. "I don't normally waste time with westerners," he continued. "Are you here to waste my time?"

"I'm here to give you something worth fighting for."

He took a sip of his tea, then nodded slowly. He snapped his fingers again and called the waitress back over. "This tea," he said, "is exceptional. You should be pleased." With a small motion of his hand he waved her away, then turned to look more directly at me. "There are two things I must share with you," he said. I couldn't help but stare into his eyes. "We already have plenty to be fighting over. And you should watch your tongue in public."

I felt my skin flush, which in squamata means not only a slight hue change but also a subtle separation of scales. "You're the one that decided to meet in a busy market," I said quickly, trying to paper over the cracks. "And I know you've got plenty to be fighting over. You've been doing it for decades. Doesn't seem to have got you very far."

"Progress comes in many forms."

"Well, I've got a whole new one for you."

Furey leaned forward on her stool and waved a hand. "Hi," she said. When she did it, she made it seem cool.

"And you are?"

"I'm from out of town."

Kandak spread his arms out wide. "Beautiful lady, from where I'm sitting, you're all from out of town. This is not news."

Marv was sat farthest away from Kandak, and he now tilted his head around. "Hey, I'm Marv," he said, "and you've never heard of her town. Also, your tusks are very pretty."

The man stared back at Marv, then turned back to Furey and examined her for a few seconds. "You're still not interesting me," he said to me, while keeping his eyes on Furey.

"You want to change things," I said. "I don't know what your grand plan is, and stop me if I'm getting this wrong, but I'm thinking you might not have one."

Kandak pursed his lips - always faintly amusing with tusked - and his eyes narrowed in anger. I'd better not push him too hard.

"We're the best weapon you've got," I continued. "You want a new world order? We'll give it to you within the year."

He stared, shifting his gaze between the three of us. He smiled to himself, then sighed, and finished his tea. "You clearly think you've got something good," he said. "There's a car waiting at the exit from the market to the north east. Go there now."

And with that he abruptly stood up and walked away, without saying another word or paying. The cafe staff didn't blink an eye. I watched him go with a small inner sigh.

Which brought us to now, the three of us sat in the back of a post-colonial car that had seen better days, bumping our way one pothole at a time through the city streets, heading away from the market and the busier districts and heading out into the dusty suburbs.

The sun was dipping behind the rooftops, the sky a distinctive gradient of blue to red, as we pulled into a complex of buildings, passing through an outer wall and courtyard.

"Heavily fortified," Furey noted.

I couldn't see anything to indicate the same. "I can't see anything," I said. "Looks like an old villa to me."

"That's because you're not an expert."

"Okay," I said. Another Furey shutdown.

We got out and were led into the main villa building, which had a similar air of expired grandiosity to the car. The foyer was expansive but bare and clearly hadn't been the owner's priority for some time. Carved columns were dusty and chipped, paint peeled from walls and the ceiling was patched with damp.

After a careful series of knocks at a door we were admitted into an inner room, where a woman sat on a pile of low cushions in the centre. She stood up as we entered, revealing a multi-coloured, natural patterning of red and orange skin that ran from her ears, down her neck and into her shirt.

Shit. She was agama.

I glanced at Furey, wondering if she knew about fire breathers. She had to know, right? There wasn't anything she didn't know, and this was something you definitely didn't want to not know, if you were Rose Furey.

"Kaysaleen Rodata, Marvin Thermivore," she said in a calm, lilting voice, pointing at us as she spoke. Her finger paused on Furey. "And you. I do not know your name. Nobody knows who you are."

"Good," Furey said.

The woman padded softly across the room towards us on bare feet.

"This is not a matter of intelligence," she said. "We know you exist, but we know nothing of you. It would seem you didn't exist until a month and half ago."

"That's what we're here about," I said.

"It is why I allowed you here," the woman said, smiling an icy smile and seemed entirely at odds with an agama. She moved in close to Furey. "You're an enigma, my dear. Mysteries need to be understood, and harnessed or destroyed."

"Good luck with that," Furey said, entirely unintimidated.

"Tell me," the woman said. "When were you born?"

"About twenty-six years ago. The date wouldn't mean much to you."

She smiled again, wider this time, then glided back across the room to a table bearing drinks and food. "I have heard," she said, "that you have been giving talks all the way from Qinhu to here. That you speak of a new society, in which anything can happen. Where genotypes don't even exist."

"That's right," I said. I had no idea where this was going.

"That's revolutionary talk," she said. "Dangerous talk. Do you know what the wings do to people who say such things? They make them go away. That is why I have to be very careful. And people like me."

Marv spoke for the first time since we'd arrived. "The PAW, you mean?"

She turned towards him, like a tiger seeing its prey. "You should know that I speak to you openly because your lives and what happens next are entirely in my hands. I do not trust you, but you cannot leave here without my permission, so there is no reason to be reticent."

Picking up a tray of small, cubed biscuits of some sort she came back across the room to where we still stood. "Please help yourselves, they are really very good."

I tried one. It was nutty and delicious. I figured I might as well enjoy the hospitality before she burned me to death.

"Yes, we are part of the People Against Wings movement, as it is called in your country. We prefer something a little more aggressive. We are bringing freedom first to Indahl, and then to all of Locque."

You're also bombing schools, kidnapping politicians and shooting up shopping malls, I thought. But I decided to keep that thought on the inside of my mouth.

"But enough of me," she said, baring teeth in that predator's smile. She turned to Furey. "Tell me of the girl without type."