The Duskling doc cleaned off his hands with a bloody rag and dropped it in a pail at his side. “Good luck those bullets got in at an angle. Your friend will be fine, he just needs to rest for a couple days - try not to re-open those stitches. And give him two of these a day for about a week and a half,” the doctor hands him a bottle.

The Captain squinted at the prescription. “These are tranquilizers for a roupher.”

“Yeah but for him,” the Duskling patted a shaggy shoulder of the unconscious, unmoving form of his patient, “pain-killer and a slight sedative.”

“How much?”

“For working on a smelly Rhoussetus? Slight chance of him waking up and ripping my head off, the late hour of this call, and the general urgency. . .” He smiled smugly, “Fifteen in tengoes, or an equivalent in crypto. Which will it be?”

The Captain handed over thirteen in well worn bills from his wallet, and a few jingling orbs.

“You’re short.”

“Can I catch you with the excess tomorrow?”

He briskly shook his head. Clovehitch took a look at Ierx, and then craned his head further back. Imogen glanced at him quizzically. He brought her over to cover the rest and she did in an instant.

Clovehitch jingled the bottle of pills at her and chucked a thumb at Ierx. “He’s going to wake up kicking and screaming like a toddler with a boo-boo.”

“It is,” she said with a throaty chuckle. Relief washed over her face looking at him, bandaged up. Ierx’s face betrayed his deep, pleasant dreams. His lips jerked and twitched, a loud snore rung out in a rustle.

“Dreaming of giant women, perhaps,” the doctor said. “Now will you please vacate my office? I have to brush up the mounds of hair I shaved from his chest.” He stripped off his bloody blue gloves and threw them in the pail too.

Imogen and Clovehitch wheeled Ierx by stretcher to the Jingle Horse, rolled him out unceremoniously to an itchy blanket laid on the bed of the auto, and took off back to the ship. They handed him off to Slick and Antares, who vowed to tuck him to bed, and they wheeled him away by cargo dolly.

The kid said it would be better if they went by tram to the Underrail. Not much space down there for a four-wheel auto. He led them to a tram station just a few blocks from the docks. He swiped his student card to let all three of them in, and they boarded a dirty, graffiti covered tram car down a slanted track. The automated car rattled and rumbled down, lights occasionally flicking. The kid seemed excited to be their guide.

This late at night there wasn’t a single other rider. Clovehitch eyed his watch. It would be sun-up in less than two hours.

“How come it’s called the Underrail?” Imogen naturally turned to her Captain, but he didn’t have an answer. Seeing an opportunity, the kid piped up.

“Big Bro says when the corps came in to build the Sunless Citadel, they wanted a dozen other city’s across the planet’s livable latitude. They wanted the Underrail to creep and crawl through the dirt to the other cities, and so you could zip right across to all of them.”

“Money dried up though. Corps pulled out. War happened, you know. The big one. Then the beasties moved in and no one wanted to touch it.”

Clovehitch let a little ‘hmph’ out at the mention of the ‘big war’. There wasn’t much big about the Duskling conflict for anyone that wasn’t a Duskling. There almost was though. Almost.

“Beasties?” Imogen said.

This time, the Captain had an answer. “Megafauna that actually makes a living in the frozen parts of the planet outside the equator.”

“They’re bigger than this tram, lady!” The kid affirmed.

There wasn’t much more talk and a little while later they were off the tram to the steaming underbelly of the Sunless Citadel. A place the sun really didn’t touch. Here, no City Watch bothered to venture. The Lower City was a regulated slum. This place was outlaw central. The stations were ruled by ambitious and bloodthirsty ganger kingpins like the kid’s ‘Big Bro.’

Clovehitch glanced up at a sign that read originally ‘Station 5’. It had been spray-painted over with the Duskling character that stood for the sound ‘Ahn’. Anarch’s territory.

They walked a few paces down the poorly lit station, the kid as their guide. They kept their hands near their guns. It was dead hours, but the Captain had the sense there were a few eyes in the shadows.

Still piles of bags, that revealed themselves to be homeless on second glance, crowded in corners and cardboard hutches. The shops and convenience stores that were half-built for the station had been gutted and repurposed. Clovehitch noted all sorts of contraband, but also plenty of normal amenities locked up tight in crude makeshift stores. He reckoned the Anarchs made a decent dime on the protection racket.

The kid led them down a utility tunnel, and a blue door. He rapt four times paused and counted three on his fingers, then another four times. A gun barrel greeted him and the two things that followed him home.

The kid put his hands up and started briskly explaining. The Duskling was burly and head shaven down to bristles among his horns, with his black sleeves rolled up and arms lashed with scars. Clovehitch and Imogen had their hands up and loose, cooperative like.

The Anarch didn’t seem to pay a word of mind to the kid, but grabbed him and pulled him close. From inside more red-faced Dusklings poked their heads out to look, all in black turtlenecks.

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The kid finally stopped yammering. “All that true?” The door guard asked, one hand on the kid’s chest, and the other on the shotgun looking to blow a hole in either Imogen or Clovehitch.

“Every syllable.” The Captain replied coolly. The door guard hadn’t paid attention, he just wanted to read their body language.

“Alright. Leave your guns at the doorstep and come in, Big Bro will wanna speak to you.”

They nodded and the two complied slow and steady, professional like. The kid seemed pleased. He led them in past rows of bunkrooms, most without doors, all stuffed with Duskling males. The doorman brought up their rear.

Many Anarchs had calls of greetings for the kid, some tussled his hair. Others commented on his battle scar, pinched it or slapped it as he passed. It must have hurt, by how the kid cringed, but he didn’t say a word. He was skipping to the main room of the operation.

Clovehitch recognized the Big Bro of the room instantly. He stood in a seat at the center, the old office chair bolted to the concrete floor and made out like a throne. A ratty red carpet was rolled up to him. Behind him, pipes blew steam or dripped water. Draped over them were animal skins, fake or real, from the Duskling’s home. Some flapped gently with the steam.

Big Bro couldn’t have been more than a few years past Clovehitch. He and his circle were in far better shape though. Their arms and shoulders nearly bursting from their clothes with the musculature.

The kid ran forward, arms outstretched. Big Bro smiled, and wrapped him in a hug, tussling his hair. His eyes were instantly on Clovehitch though. So were the eyes of the rest of the Anarch toughs in the room.

Big Bro took a few steps forward and extended a hand to the Captain, his forearm bristled with black hairs and pulsing with blue veins. It was a tight shake, hurt a little but Clovehitch didn’t let that show.

“Thanks for returning this fine young man to our flock,” he glanced back at the kid. “And the item he relieved from the gangers.”

Clovehitch nodded in recognition.

“I suppose you are expecting compensation? You don’t look like a pair that operates on generosity.”

Clovehitch held his hand up. “Not much. Just a few Tengoes to cover the cost of a friend who got nicked in the rescue. And the girl you have in your care, Ayelet.”

Big Bro looked confused, brow pinched in thought. “Sakeri’s girl?”

“Her father wants her home.”

Big Bro nodded his head and ran a hand along his horn in thought. He wheeled around. “I wish you had brought your friend here, we could have treated him.” He flicked a hand at one of his toughs, who brought a box forward. Back turned, the Anarch chapter leader counted out a few tengoes and placed them in Clovehitch’s palm. Twenty, reimbursement and then a little extra.

“The girl is in bunkroom eleven, take her. Thank you again.”

Imogen looked pleasantly surprised. Moreso when they entered bunkroom eleven. A group of six Anarchs were knelt or sat around Ayelet, consoling her, patting her hand. Their ages were vast, but all under thirty. Some of the Anarchs looked just as tearful as she did. Sakeri’s loss, Clovehitch bet.

“Ayelet Sonrimor,” the Captain declared as he entered, fingers in his belt loops. “We’re here to take you home.”

She looked up, wiping away a teardrop with her handkerchief. She was still in her school uniform, her boyfriend’s bomber jacket over it. “What?” She said in a choking, tear struck voice. “No!” She looked disgusted and cried even harder. “I’m not going back!”

Imogen gave Clovehitch a look he ignored. He spoke firmly, “You’re coming crying and walking or kicking and screaming, your pick young lady.”

She only sniffled. The Anarchs didn’t have much to say but had plenty of glances to cast at Clovehitch. He walked past them, grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet, flats clacking against the concrete. With a push forward she walked towards Imogen.

She followed them out and back to the tram station. Her eyes didn’t leave looking at her flats.

Clovehitch grabbed his current burner from his jacket pocket and dialed their Mr. X. He answered in an instant.

“Yes, who is this?”

“Your friend. I got the package. Where is your apartment?”

Mr. Sonrimor gave out the details. Surprisingly he lived in the Lower City. A pleasant surprise for Clovehitch. Imogen was giving him hard glances the entire tram ride, and the entire conversation he had with Slick. Clovehitch wanted to know how much use a low level admin like Mr. Sonrimor could be for cracking into an EastFed warehouse. Not much apparently.

It wasn’t until they were a block from Mr. Sonrimor’s apartment that Imogen spoke up. “Captain, may I offer my personal suggestion?”

“Of course.” He pulled into an empty space on the road and turned the engine off. They’d walk the rest.

“I don’t think we should return the girl to her father.”

His eyes fluttered. He knew it was coming. Ayelet’s head perked up and she began listening closely, her eyes burning a hole into the back of Clovehitch’s seat. The Captain knew what was going on. The panic from the father, the files from the Fetclub, Ayelet’s disposition. He expected a little more fight from her though, to be honest.

“Position considered, Number One.”

“Captain.”

“Position considered and rejected. Pile out. This girl is going to her father and we are collecting our Tengoes.”

The sun doesn’t shine in the Lower City, but the bulbs above began to flicker on in a rolling twilight of sorts. They practically had to drag Ayelet’s limp body the block to the apartment, and they really did have to drag her to the elevator. She sniffled and cried the ten stories up. When the doors slid open with a ding though, she was dead silent.

Mr. Sonrimor was waiting, leaning from his door frame. He waved them in with a hurry. He was a blither of questions and interjections of love and praise and demands of his daughter. Clovehitch held tight to her arm. He closed the door behind him into the apartment.

“Ten paces back, Mr. X. The rest of the payment.”

He steamed, tossing another credstick before the Captain’s feet. He ordered Imogen to fetch it and drain it. The funds were good.

“What else is in your account?”

“What?” Mr. X barked and snarled. “You fucking thieves! Hand her over, I have paid you enough! More than I originally intended.”

Face blank, the Captain unclipped his gun and pulled back the hammer, barrel on Ayelet’s temple. Imogen smiled but stifled it. She’d gotten her way.

“You fucking fiends. Ruddy bastards.” The Duskling was back in a moment with another credstick. “Another twenty. It’s all I have left you vultures. Now hand her over.”

He held the credstick in one hand and beckoned for Ayelet with the other. Clovehitch shook his head and ordered him calmly to toss it over. Imogen drained the chip and the funds fell into the Lovelace’s account safely.

Clovehitch put his gun away. He spun Ayelet to face him and knelt down. She was nothing but watery eyes. A cruel look marked her features, streaks of long black hair obscuring her face.

Clovehitch reached for the holdout on his back. “This is a Starling pistol. Shoots plasma. Deadly at 1800 meters. You squeeze this part to shoot.” He flicked the safety on and off and showed her how to do it as he placed it in her hand. He rotated her to face her father, and driven by desire she raised up her aim toward him.

“Imogen. Clear out.” Clovehitch allowed himself a glance at Mr. X’s horrified face. He couldn’t do much but sputter as the two runners left his apartment.