A strange scratch echoed from down the passageway. Ishant rested his hand on the wall panel, which provided a sense of reassurance. He swept down the hall, thankful for the poor illumination. Again the wall braces appeared every ten meters or so, with the dark walls devouring the light and deepening the shadows. In the distance, a wary shadow bobbed, nearly a heat shimmer in the wan light. Silently, Ishant advanced on the figure. He skirted the jutting rocks and slipped farther into the tunnel. Whoever it was headed toward one of the refinery chambers.

Ishant never gave too much consideration to things like a cover or blending in, often using his mzungu appearance to his advantage. Eyes glided over him, never lingering in detailed study. He’d offer up an awkward smile if anyone met his eyes, but they’d note his color and place before moving on. No one would’ve been able to pick him out of an O.E. lineup.

The crowd thickened as he neared the corner. A group of drummers performed. A man carted a stall through the crowd, displaying his handcrafted statuettes. A row of food courts roasted a variety of meats or warmed stews or roasted breadfruit. Many of the miners stopped to watch or gather in circles to catch up with one another. Chatting, laughing, and enjoying one another like a rush hour intersection of pedestrian traffic. The congestion swelled without complaint as more food artisans and musicians showed up to demonstrate and share their work. The chaos of a night shift.

Ishant kept a close eye on his ghost. They’d be slowed down by the crush of people, a shoulder-to-shoulder throng, over fifty people between them. If he wanted, Ishant could sidle to within a meter of them and not be noticed. The ghost shuffled forward, with the occasional furtive glance to track their surroundings, surveying any reflective surface or incongruent sound. The ghost couldn’t just use the Niyabinghi cloaking tech. The Niyabinghi could easily track him, as cloaked agents were active duty and they had to know where and how they were positioned. Ishant opted to hang back.

The ghost moved off the main strip along a quieter, more residential road. The rough-hewn kraal full of open doorways and neighbors gathering on porches. Older ladies sat younger ones between their knees, drawing a comb through their hair, with the occasional scoffs at the yelps of the more tender-headed. Ishant’s mind raced, his curiosity tripping him up, overruling the cautious part of his brain so that he could figure out what the ghost was up to.

His arm went numb. A projectile of some sort struck him. His cloak absorbed the brunt of it. Had it been a heavier charge, Muungano doctors would be standing over his corpse, examining the hole in his chest. Ishant turned. Blinking rapidly, almost excited to get into a tussle, he’d offered up his face as if anticipating being hit.